MUSHROOM 
TOWN 

Oliver*  Onions 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


MUSHROOM  TOWN 


OLIVER    ONIONS 


MUSHROOM  TOWN 


BY 

OLIVER  ONIONS 

Author  of  "Gray  Youth,"  "In  Accordance  with  the 
Evidence,"  "Debit  Account,"  etc.,  etc. 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 

Publishers  in  America  for  Hodder  fy  Stoughton 


- 


Copyright,  1914, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


DEDICATION 

IN  the  following  pages  I  have  permitted  myself  to  take 
a  number  of  liberties — geographical,  historical  etymological, 
and  even  geological — with  a  country  for  which  I  have  con- 
ceived a  strong  affection;  I  trust  I  have  taken  none  with  its 
beauty  nor  with  its  hospitality.  It  will  be  useless  to  search 
for  Llanyglo  on  any  map.  It  is  neither  in  North  Carnar- 
vonshire, in  Merioneth,  nor  in  Lleyn.  Of  certain  features 
of  existing  places  I  have  made  a  composite,  which  is  the 
"  MUSHROOM  TOWN  "  of  this  book. 

The  kindnesses  I  have  received  in  Wales  during  the  past 
six  years  have  been  innumerable;  indeed,  much  of  my  work 
has  consisted  of  writing  down  (and  not  always  improving} 
things  told  me  by  one  of  my  hosts.  For  this  and  other 
reasons  I  should  like  to  render  him  such  acknowledgment 
as  a  Dedication  may  express.  "  MUSHROOM  TOWN  "  is 
therefore  inscribed,  in  gratitude  and  affection,  to 

ARTHUR  ASHLEY  RUCK 
Hampstead,  1914 


2046748 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

T!HE  INVITATION 9 

PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  YEAR  DOT 17 

II    ITS  NONAGE 31 

III  THE  MINDER 46 

IV  "Dim  SAESNEG" 52 

V    THE  HAFOD  UNOS 75 

VI    THE  FOOT  IN  THE  DOOR 86 

VII    THE  MEMBER      . 98 

VIII    THELEMA        .     ; .109 

PART  II 

I    RAILHEAD 117 

II    THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WORKS 126 

III  THE  CURTAIN  RAISER 142 

IV  YNYS 168 

PART  III 

I    THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP 179 

II    THE  GIANT'S  STRIDE 205 

III  THE  BLANK  CHEQUE 218 

IV  PAWB  .  .  233 


CONTENTS 
PART  IV 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I  THE  BLIND  EYE 244 

II  JUNE 263 

III  DELYN 275 

IV  AN  ORDINARY  YOUNG  MAN 297 

V  THE  DWELLING  OF  A  NIGHT 310 

VI  THE  GLYN 323 

PART  V 

I    THE  WHEEL 335 

II    ADIEU  .  .  347 


THE  INVITATION 

{ 4T  TT  TE'LL  take  the  little  cable-tram,  if  you  like, 
\  \  but  it's  not  far  to  walk  —  twenty  minutes 
or  so  —  the  Trwyn's  seven  hundred  feet  high.  You'll 
see  the  whole  of  the  town  from  the  top.  The  sun  will 
have  made  the  grass  a  little  slippery,  but  there  are 
paths  everywhere ;  the  sheep  began  them,  and  then  the 
visitors  wore  them  bare.  And  we  shall  get  the 
breeze.  .  .  . 

"  There  you  are :  Llanyglo.  You  see  it  from  up  here 
almost  as  the  gulls  and  razorbills  see  it.  The  bay's  a 
fine  curve,  isn't  it  ?  —  rather  like  a  strongly  blown  kite- 
string;  and  the  Promenade's  nearly  two  miles  long. 
But  as  you  see,  the  town  doesn't  go  very  far  back. 
From  the  Imperial  there  to  the  railway  station  and 
the  gasometers  at  the  back  isn't  much  more  than 
half  a  mile ;  the  town  seems  to  press  down  to  the  front 
just  as  the  horses  draw  the  bathing-vans  down  to  the 
tide.  Shall  we  sit  down?  Here's  a  boulder.  It's 
chipped  all  over  with  initials,  of  course;  so  are  the 
benches,  and  even  the  turf ;  but  you'd  wonder  that  there 
was  a  bit  of  wood  or  stone  or  turf  left  at  all  if  you  saw 
the  crowds  that  come  here  when  the  Wakes  are  on.  It's 
odd  that  you  should  never  see  anybody  actually  cutting 
them.  Some  of  them  must  have  taken  an  hour  or  two 
with  a  hammer  and  chisel,  but  I've  been  up  here  count- 
less times  and  never  seen  anybody  at  it  yet. 

"  Yes,  that's  Llanyglo ;  but  look  at  the  mountains  first, 

9 


10  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

This  isn't  the  best  time  of  the  day  for  seeing  them ;  the 
morning  or  the  evening's  the  best  time;  the  sun  isn't 
far  enough  round  yet.  But  sometimes,  when  the 
light's  just  right,  they  start  out  into  folds  and  wrinkles 
almost  as  quickly  as  you  could  snap  your  fingers  — 
it's  quite  dramatic.  Foels  and  Moels  and  Pens  and 
Mynedds,  look  —  half  the  North  Cambrian  Range. 
You  couldn't  have  a  better  centre  for  motor-cycle  and 
char-a-banc  tours  than  Llanyglo.  .  .  .  Then  on  the 
other  side's  the  sea.  That's  only  a  tinny  sort  of  glitter 
just  now,  but  you  should  see  the  moon  rise  over  it. 
People  come  out  from  the  concerts  on  the  pier-head 
just,  to  have  a  look.  .  .  . 

"  The  Pier  looks  tiny  from  up  here  ?  Yes,  but  it's 
three  furlongs  long  for  all  that,  and  those  two  tart-tin- 
looking  things  at  the  end  hold  nearly  a  thousand  people 
apiece.  But,  as  you  say,  it  is  rather  like  one  of  those 
children's  toy  railways  they  sell  on  the  stalls  in  Gardd 
Street  for  sixpence-halfpenny.  And  that  always 
strikes  me  as  rather  a  curious  thing  about  Llanyglo. 
It's  a  big  place  now  —  nine  thousand  winter  popula- 
tion; but  somehow  it  has  a  smaller  look  than  it  had 
when  it  was  just  a  score  of  cottages,  all  put  together 
not  much  bigger  than  the  Kursaal  Gardens  there.  I 
don't  know  why  the  cottages  should  have  seemed  more 
in  scale  with  the  mountains  than  all  this,  but  they  did. 
I  suppose  it  was  because  they  didn't  set  up  for  any- 
thing, like  the  Kursaal  and  the  Majestic  and  the  Im- 
perial. .  .  .  But  it  doesn't  do  to  tell  the  Llanyglo  folk 
that.  They  look  at  it  in  quite  another  way.  To  them 
the  sea  and  the  mountains  are  so  many  adjuncts,  some- 
thing they  can  turn  into  money  by  dipping  people  at 
sixpence  a  time  and  motoring  them  round  at  four-and- 
sixpence  the  tour.  .  .  ,  And  sometimes  you  can't  help 


THE  INVITATION  11 

thinking  that  it  wouldn't  take  very  much  (a  wind  a 
bit  stronger  than  usual  or  an  extra  heave  of  the  sea, 
say)  and  all  these  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pounds' 
worth  of  stone  and  iron  and  paint  and  gilding  would 
just  disappear  —  be  sponged  out  like  the  castles  and 
hoof -marks  on  the  sands  when  the  tide  comes  in  —  or 
like  a  made-up  face  when  you  wipe  the  carmine  and 
pencilling  from  it.  ...  Eh  ?  —  No,  I'm  not  saying 
they've  spoiled  the  place  —  nor  yet  that  they  haven't. 
You  mustn't  come  here  if  you  want  a  couple  of  miles 
of  beach  to  yourself.  It  all  depends  how  you  look  at 
it.  If  Llanyglo's  cheap  jack  in  one  way,  perhaps  it 
isn't  in  another.  It's  merely  that  I  remember  it  as 
it  used  to  be.  ... 

"  Would  it  surprise  you  to  learn  that  the  whole  place 
is  only  about  thirty  years  old?  That's  all.  It  grew 
like  a  mushroom ;  there  are  people  who  were  born  here 
who  don't  know  their  way  about  their  own  town.  .  .  . 
Mostly  Welsh?  Oh  dear  no,  not  by  any  means.  I 
should  say  about  half-and-half.  I  suppose  you're 
thinking  of  the  Welsh  names  of  the  streets?  They 
don't  mean  very  much.  There's  Gardd  Street,  for  in- 
stance ;  l  gardd '  is  only  the  Welsh  for  l  garden,'  and 
Edward  Garden,  John  Willie  Garden's  father,  built 
the  greater  part  of  it  (for  that  matter,  he  built  the 
greater  part  of  Llanyglo).  And  if  anybody  called 
Wood  (say)  had  put  up  a  house  here,  he'd  probably 
have  called  it  '  Ty  Coed.'  And  some  of  it,  of  course, 
is  genuine  Welsh.  The  Forth  Neigr  Koad  does  go  to 
Forth  Neigr,  and  Sarn,  over  there,  has  always  been 
Sam.  But  people  think  they're  getting  better  value 
for  their  money  if  they  come  away  for  a  fortnight  and 
see  foreign  names  everywhere;  they've  a  travelled  sort 
of  feeling;  so  they  give  the  streets  these  names,  and 


12  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

print  all  the  placards  in  two  columns,  with  '  Rhybudd ' 
on  one  side  and  l  Notice '  on  the  other. 

"And  that's  given  rise  to  one  rather  amusing  little 
mistake.  As  you  know,  this  headland  that  we're  on 
is  called  the  Trwyn,  and  l  trwyn '  simply  means  a  nose 
or  a  promontory.  But  over  past  the  Lighthouse  there, 
there  are  the  remains  of  an  old  Dinas,  a  British  camp, 
and  half  these  Lancashire  trippers  think  the  head- 
land's called  after  that — 't'ruin' — <th'  ruin' — you 
know  how  they  talk.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  interested  in  the  place  for  several  reasons 
(not  money  ones,  I'm  sorry  to  say).  For  one  thing, 
I  like  to  watch  the  Welsh  and  Lancashire  folk  to- 
gether ;  that's  been  very,  amusing.  And  then,  it's  not 
often  you  get  the  chance  of  seeing  a  whole  development 
quite  so  concisely  epitomised  as  we've  had  it  here. 
Llanyglo  started  from  practically  nothing,  and  it's 
grown  to  this  before  John  Willie  Garden  has  a  single 
grey  hair  on  his  head  (though,  to  be  sure,  that  cow- 
slip colour  doesn't  show  grey  very  much).  Then 
there's  that  curious  essence  —  I  don't  know  what  you 
call  it  —  the  thing  a  town  would  still  keep  even  though 
you  cleared  every  brick  away  and  built  it  all  over  again, 
and  sent  every  inhabitant  packing  and  re-peopled  it. 
There's  a  field  for  speculation  there,  too,  though  per- 
haps not  a  very  profitable  one.  But  most  of  all  I've 
been  interested  in  seeing  what  various  sets  of  people 
have  given  Llanyglo,  and  what  it's  given  to  them  in 
return  —  how  the  stones  and  the  people  have  taken 
colour  from  one  another,  if  you  understand  me,  and 
what  colour  —  in  fact  (if  it  doesn't  sound  a  little  pom- 
pous) in  Llanyglo  as  an  expression  of  the  life  of  our 
time.  It's  sometimes  hard  to  believe  that  something 
almost  human  hasn't  got  into  its  stone  and  paint  and 


THE  INVITATION  13 

mortar.  The  whole  place,  as  it's  spread  out  down  there 
now  —  two-mile  line  of  front,  houses,  hotels,  railway, 
gasometers  and  all  —  has  had  almost  a  personal  birth, 
and  adolescence,  and  growing-pains,  and  sown  its  wild 
oats,  and  has  its  things  that  it  tells  and  its  things  that 
it  doesn't  tell,  in  an  extraordinary  way  —  or  else,  as 
I  say,  it  seems  extraordinary,  because  you  get  it  all 
into  a  single  focus.  There  may  even  be  a  bit  of  me 
in  Llanyglo.  If  you  came  half  a  dozen  times  there'd 
be  a  bit  of  you  too. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  meet  John  Willie  Garden. 
He's  the  man  to  go  to  if  you  want  to  know  anything 
about  these  streets  and  hotels  and  the  seaside  and  the 
stations  on  the  front.  Why  not  come  to  the  Kursaal, 
on  the  Terrace,  at  about  nine  to-night  ?  —  Good.  He's 
a  capital  chap ;  a  Something  or  other  on  the  Manchester 
Chamber  of  Commerce,  adopted  Conservative  Free 
Trade  candidate  for  his  division  (but  a  Protectionist 
in  other  countries)  and  probably  worth  a  quarter  of  a 
million,  a  good  deal  of  it  out  of  Llanyglo.  Not  bad 
for  a  little  turned  forty,  eh?  He'll  probably  ask  you 
to  dinner.  You  can't  see  his  house  from  here ;  it  stands 
back  from  Gardd  Street.  It  was  the  first  house  to  go 
up  in  Llanyglo  —  no,  I'm  forgetting.  There  was  one 
before  it  —  just  one  before  it,  not  counting  the  original 
cottages,  of  course.  .  .  . 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  turn  ?  We've  time  to  have 
a  look  at  the  Dinas  before  we  go  down.  .  .  . 

"  It's  British,  and  the  Sixpenny  Guide  will  tell  you 
all  that's  known  about  it  —  possibly  more.  Its  founda- 
tions are  said  to  have  been  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of 
Merlin.  What's  left  of  it's  certainly  sprinkled  with 
these  everlasting  initials.  The  Trwyn  Light's  just  be- 
hind, two  reds  and  a  white,  and  they're  experimenting 


14:  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

•with  the  Rocket  Apparatus,  but  I  don't  think  that  will 
come  to  much. —  There's  little  Forth  Neigr,  look  —  and 
that  point  thirty  miles  away's  Abercelyn.  .  .  . 

"  Now  the  mountains  are  beginning  to  show ;  there 
they  are  —  Delyn  on  the  left,  then  Moel  Eryr,  then 
Mynedd  Mawr.  That's  Penyffestyn,  with  the  great 
cavity  in  his  side,  and  his  shadow's  right  across 
Bwlch.  .  .  .  Yes,  very  fine,  and  a  perfect  evening  for 
it.  The  posters  at  Euston  don't  overstate  it,  do  they? 
Of  course,  you've  seen  that  very  familiar  one,  of  a 
Welsh  Giantess,  shawl,  apron,  steeple  hat  and  all  the 
lot,  holding  a  view  of  Llanyglo  in  her  arms? 
Pink  hotels,  indigo  mountains  and  chrome-yellow 
sands.  .  .  . 

"  There's  the  Queen  of  the  Waters  coming  in.  If 
we  wait  a  few  minutes  longer  we  shall  see  the  town 
light  up.  Yes,  electricity;  the  power-station  was 
finished  only  last  year ;  it's  over  there  beyond  the  filter- 
beds;  Llanyglo  handles  its  own  sewage.  .  .  .  Ah! 
There  goes  the  Promenade  lights;  three  jumps,  and  the 
two  miles  are  lighted  up  from  end  to  end;  the  kite- 
string's  a  necklace  now;  pretty,  isn't  it?  .  .  .  And 
there  goes  the  Pier.  .  .  .  There'll  be  a  glare  behind  us 
like  a  shout  of  light  in  a  moment  —  the  Trwyn 
Light.  .  .  . 

"  The  mountains  are  dark  now,  but  how  the  day 
lingers  on  the  sea !  To-night  it's  like  ribbon-grass.  .  .  . 
Hear  the  post-horns?  Those  are  the  chars-a-bancs 
coming  in.  The  last  tripper's  running  for  the  station 
now.  .  .  .  Now  the  light's  dying  on  the  sea ;  it's  a  new 
moon  and  a  spring  tide.  Two  or  three  riding-lights 
only  —  I  say,  it's  solemn  out  there.  .  .  .  But  they'll  be 
dining  at  the  Majestic  presently.  That  long  golden 
haze  is  Gardd  Street,  and  that  spangle  at  the  end  of  it's 


THE  INVITATION  15 

the  New  Bazaar.  There  goes  the  Big  Wheel  in  the 
Kursaal  Gardens,  with  its  advertisement  on  it.  We 
might  look  in  at  the  Dancing  Hall  to-night ;  that's  rather 
a  sight.  They  have  firework  displays  in  the  grounds, 
too,  and  last  year  there  was  one  out  in  the  bay ;  they  put 
bombs  and  flares  and  serpents  on  rafts,  and  laid  them 
from  boats,  like  mines.  That  was  in  honour  of  the 
Investiture  of  the  Prince  of  Wales.  .  .  . 

"  We'd  better  take  the  tram  down,  I  think ;  we 
might  stumble  and  break  our  necks.  .  .  . 

"The  other  turnstile. —  That  kiosk  place?  That's 
the  visitors'  bureau.  They'll  tell  you  quite  a  number 
of  useful  things  there  —  cab  fares,  porters'  charges, 
time  and  tide  tables,  excursions  and  so  on;  but  John 
Willie  Garden  can  tell  you  more  interesting  things  than 
those.  Don't  forget  you're  to  meet  him  to-night.  .  .  . 

"  You're  sure  you  can't  dine  with  me  ?  Very  well. 
The  Kursaal,  then,  on  the  Terrace,  at  a  quarter  to 
nine.  .  .  ." 


PART  ONE 
I 

THE   YEAB,   DOT 

ON1  a  Friday  afternoon  in  the  June  of  the  year 
1880,  a  roomy  old  shandrydan,  midway  between 
a  trap  and  a  wagonette,  moved  slowly  along  the  Forth 
Neigr  and  Llanyglo  road.  It  had  been  built  as  a  pair- 
horse  vehicle  for  Squire  Wynne,  of  Plas  Neigr,  but 
the  door  at  the  back  of  it  now  bore  the  words,  "  Royal 
Hotel,  Forth  Neigr,"  and  its  present  or  some  inter- 
mediate owner  had  converted  it  to  the  use  of  a  single 
horse.  The  shaky-kneed  old  brown  animal  at  present 
between  the  shafts  might  have  had  a  spirit-level  inside 
him,  so  unerringly  did  he  become  aware  when  the  road 
departed  by  as  much  as  a  fraction  from  the  true  hori- 
zontal. Taking  the  good  with  the  bad,  he  was  doing  a 
fair  five  miles  an  hour.  At  each  of  its  revolutions  the 
off  hind-wheel  gave  a  dry  squeak  like  a  pair  of  boots 
that  has  not  been  paid  for. 

The  day  was  warm,  and  hay  was  cutting.  Combings 
of  hay  striped  the  hedges  where  the  carts  had  passed, 
and  as  the  Royal  Hotel  conveyance  was  so  wide  that  it 
had  to  draw  in  in  order  to  allow  anything  else  to  pass  it, 
wisps  had  lodged  also  in  the  cords  of  the  great  pile  of 
boxes  and  brown  tin  trunks  that  occupied  the  forward 
part  of  it.  Honeysuckle  tangled  the  hedge-tops;  the 
wild  roses  were  out  below ;  and  in  the  ditches  the  paler 

17 


18  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

scabious  was  of  the  colour  of  the  sky,  the  deeper  that 
of  the  mountains  towards  which  the  old  horse  lazily 
clop-clopped. 

The  pile  of  trunks  in  front  hid  the  driver  and  the 
two  print-skirted  and  black-jacketed  young  women  who 
sat  beside  him  from  those  inside  the  vehicle.  These 
two  young  women  were  two  of  Mrs.  Garden's  domes- 
tics, and  they  travelled  far  more  comfortably  than  did 
their  mistress.  Packed  up  by  her  bustle  behind,  on 
her  right  by  her  seven-years-old  daughter  who  slept  with 
her  head  on  her  shoulders,  on  her  left  by  the  angle  of 
the  trap,  and  in  front  by  the  hamper,  the  three  or  four 
straw  basses,  the  cardboard  boxes,  the  hold-all  of  sticks 
and  umbrellas,  with  a  travelling-rug  thrown  in  (all  of 
which  articles  she  strove  to  balance  on  her  short,  steep 
lap),  she  could  only  perspire.  Her  husband,  who  sat 
opposite,  could  see  no  more  of  her  than  the  top  of  her 
hen's-tail,  lavender  bonnet.  Even  this  he  shut  out  when 
he  took  up,  now  his  newspaper  (every  line  of  which 
he  had  read  twice),  and  now  his  daughter's  Little  Folks 
(for  the  inspection  of  which  periodical,  though  the 
print  was  much  bigger  than  that  of  the  newspaper,  he 
put  on  his  gold-rimmed  glasses).  The  smell  of  his 
excellent  cigar  mingled  with  the  scents  of  the  roses  and 
hay,  and  trailed  like  an  invisible  wake  a  hundred  yards 
behind. 

John  Willie  Garden,  who  was  eleven,  had  travelled 
half  the  distance  from  Forth  ISTeigr  on  the  step  of  the 
trap.  During  the  rest  of  the  time,  now  falling  behind 
and  now  running  on  ahead,  now  up  a  campion-grown 
bank  and  again  lying  down  flat  to  drink  at  a  brook,  he 
had  covered  as  much  distance  as  a  dog  that  is  taken 
out  for  a  walk.  He  wore  a  navy  blue  jersey,  which, 
when  peeled  off  over  his  head,  had  the  double  effect  of 


THE  YEAK  DOT  19 

wiping  his  short  nose  and  causing  his  shock  of  gilded 
hair  to  stand  up  like  flames,  all  in  one  movement.  He 
carried  a  catapult  in  one  hand.  Both  pockets  of  his 
moleskin  knickers  bulged  with  ammunition  for  this 
engine.  In  the  heat  of  a  catapult  action,  against  hens  or 
windows,  he  used  his  mouth  as  a  magazine,  discharging 
and  loading  again  with  great  dexterity. —  But,  a  mile  or 
so  back,  his  father,  looking  up  over  his  paper,  had  called 
the  Cease  Firing.  John  Willie  now  plipped  the  cata- 
pult furtively,  and  without  pebble.  It  was  the  chief 
drawback  of  the  holiday  from  his  point  of  view  that  it 
had  to  be  taken  in  the  company  of  his  father.  Among 
his  brighter  hopes  was  that  Mr.  Garden,  having  seen 
them  installed,  would  return  to  Manchester  on  the 
Monday. 

Mr.  Garden  was  head  of  the  firm  of  Garden,  Scharf 
and  Garden,  spinners,  and,  to  judge  from  his  attire,  he 
might  have  stepped  straight  from  the  exchange.  His 
square-crowned  billycock  hat,  buttoned-up  pepper-and- 
salt  grey  suit,  and  crossover  bird's-eye  tie  with  the  pebble 
pin  in  it,  were  at  odds  with  the  slumbrous  lanes  and  the 
scabious-blue  mountains.  He  carried  a  wooden-sticked, 
horn-handled  umbrella,  wrapped  in  a  protecting  sheath, 
and  from  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain  depended  a  cluster 
of  little  silver  emblems  that  he  would  not  have  ex- 
changed for  as  many  Balas  rubies.  All  Manchester 
knew  that  he  could  have  given  up  the  dogcart  in  which 
he  drove  daily  to  business,  and  set  up  a  carriage  and  a 
pair  of  horses  in  its  stead,  any  day  it  had  pleased  him ; 
and  his  opinions  and  judgments,  when  he  saw  fit  to  utter 
them,  were  quoted.  But  he  rarely  uttered  them. 
When  asked  for  his  advice,  say  upon  a  letter,  he  would 
adjust  his  glasses,  read  the  letter  slowly  through,  turn 
back  and  read  it  all  over  again  more  slowly  still,  and 


20  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

then,  when  the  person  in  difficulties  was  awaiting  the 
weighty  pronouncement,  would  look  through  the  letter 
rapidly  a  third  time,  and  at  last,  glancing  over  the  top 
of  his  glasses,  would  mildly  observe,  "  This  seems  to  he 
a  letter."  Sometimes  he  would  come  to  the  very  verge 
of  committing  himself  by  adding,  "  From  So-and-So." 
The  grey  eyes  that  looked  over  those  gold  rims  were 
remarkable.  They  seemed  to  serve  less  as  appreciative 
organs  of  immediate  vision  than  as  passers-on  of  an 
infinite  number  of  visual  data,  which  would  be  accepted 
or  rejected  or  laid  for  the  present  aside  by  some  piece 
of  mechanism  hidden  behind.  He  was  forty-four,  clean 
shaven,  save  for  a  pair  of  small  mutton-chop  whiskers 
already  turning  grey,  darkish  and  rather  delicate- 
looking,  and  only  half  the  size  of  his  stout,  blonde  wife. 
As  long  as  Free  Trade  remained  untouched,  he  had 
no  politics,  and  he  was  an  adherent  of  the  lower  forms 
of  the  Established  Church.  He  was  taking  this  journey 
on  his  daughter  Minetta's  account,  who  was  not  doing 
so  well  as  she  ought  to  be.  He  had  bought  a  couple  of 
the  Llanyglo  cottages,  and  judged  that  by  this  time  they 
must  be  ready  for  occupation. 

The  mountains  drew  nearer,  and  other  pale  colours 
began  to  show  through  the  scabious  blue.  The  pile  of 
luggage  continued  to  brush  the  hedges,  and  the  off  wheel 
to  creak.  Minetta  snored  lightly  as  she  slept,  and  the 
black  legs  that  issued  from  her  pink  check  frock, 
trimmed  with  crimson  braid,  swung  slackly  with  every 
jolt  of  the  cart.  Mrs.  Garden's  face  glistened;  Mr. 
Garden  allowed  Little  Folks  to  fall  from  his  hand,  and 
dozed ;  John  Willie  sought  birds'  nests  and  rabbits ;  and 
the  old  horse  continued  to  change  from  lumpish  trot  to 
slow  walk  and  from  slow  walk  to  lumpish  trot,  as  if  he 
had  had  a  spirit-level  inside  him. 


THE  YEAR  DOT  21 

After  this  fashion  the  Gardens  jogged  along  the  lanes 
where  to-day  the  summer  dust  never  settles  for  touring- 
cars,  motor-cycles  and  the  Llanyglo  motor  chars-a- 
bancs. 

"John  Willie!" 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  they  had  arrived.  Leaving 
the  cluster  of  three  or  four  farms  that  formed  the  land- 
ward part  of  Llanyglo,  they  had  turned  through  a  gate- 
less  gap  in  a  thymy  earth-wall,  and  all  save  Mrs.  Garden 
and  Minetta  had  descended.  The  cart-track  had  become 
less  and  less  distinct,  and  had  finally  lost  itself  altogether 
in  deep,  sandy  drifts  in  which  their  approach  made  no 
noise.  There  was  a  fresher  feel  in  the  air. 

And  then,  through  a  V  in  the  sandhills,  the  sea  had 
appeared,  and  the  lazy  crash  of  a  breaker  had  been 
heard. 

The  irregular  row  of  thatched  cottages  was  set  per- 
haps a  hundred  yards  back  from  high-water  mark,  and 
the  intervening  space  was  a  waste  of  sand,  coarse  tus- 
socks, and  the  glaucous  blue  sea-holly.  Half -overblown 
rubbish  strewed  the  beach  —  rusty  tin  pans  and  kettles, 
old  kedge  anchors,  corks,  a  mass  of  potato-parings  in 
which  three  or  four  hens  scratched,  and  the  skeletons 
of  a  couple  of  disused  boats.  The  half-dozen  service- 
able boats  were  gathered  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
away  about  a  short  wooden  jetty.  A  mile  away  in  the 
other  direction  rose  the  Trwyn,  bronze  with  sunny 
heather  and  purple  with  airy  shadow,  with  the  light- 
house and  the  Dinas  on  the  top.  A  small  herd  of  black 
cattle  had  wandered  slowly  out  to  it,  and  was  wandering 
slowly  back  again  at  the  edge  of  the  tide. 

"John  Willie!" 

The  cottages  were  thatched  and  claywashed,  and 
while  some  of  them  had  a  couple  of  strides  of  garden  in 


n  MUSHEOOM  TOWN 

front,  others  rose  from  little  tahises  of  blown  sand. 
Sand  was  everywhere.  It  lodged  in  the  crevices,  took 
the  paint  off  the  doors,  and  had  blunted  the  angles  of 
posts  and  palings  until  they  were  as  smooth  and  rounded 
as  the  two  or  three  ships'  figure-heads  that  stood  within 
them.  Grey  old  oars  leaned  up  in  corners ;  umber  nets, 
with  cork  floats  like  dangling  fruit  upon  them,  hung 
from  hooks  in  the  walls ;  and  the  squat  chimneys  had  flat 
stones  on  the  tops  of  them.  The  windows  were  provided 
with  swing-back  wooden  shutters.  Between  the  farm- 
ing part  and  the  fishing  part  of  Llanyglo  the  family  had 
passed  three  chapels. 

"John  Willie!" 

Mrs.  Garden  had  descended,  and  stood  over  her  neat 
boot-tops  in  sand,  wondering  which  of  her  cramped  mem- 
bers it  would  be  best  to  try  to  straighten  first.  Standing 
by  her  only  half  awake,  Minetta  rubbed  her  eyes.  At  a 
respectful  distance,  but  a  convenient  nearness,  half  a 
dozen  barefooted  children  described  as  it  were  rainbow- 
curves  in  the  air  with  their  hands  from  the  foreheads 
downwards,  and  a  little  further  away  the  maritime  pop- 
ulation of  Llanyglo  watched  the  Eoyal  Hotel  driver 
struggle  with  the  luggage.  They  did  not  stand  off  from 
hostility,  but  from  an  excess  of  delicacy.  Then,  as  a 
heavy  trunk  slipped  and  stuck,  a  young  man  with  braces 
over  his  gansey  gave  a  quick  smile,  started  forward,  and 
bore  a  hand. 

"John  — Willie!" 

It  was  Mr.  Garden  who  called.  He  had  put  his 
key  into  the  door  of  the  cottage  where  the  house- 
leek  grew  like  a  turkey's  neck  on  the  claywashed  gate- 
post, and  he  wanted  John  Willie  to  help  carry  in  the 
smaller  parcels.  Now  John  Willie  was  neither  deaf, 
nor  did  he  feign  deafness,  but  he  had  a  fine  sense  of  the 


THE  YEAE  DOT  23 

defensive  uses  of  stupidity.  Question  him  directly 
(say  about  those  apples  or  that  broken  window-pane), 
and  he  knew  nothing  whatever.  Question  him  further, 
and  he  knew  less  than  nothing.  You  might  conceivably 
have  questioned  him  to  the  extreme  point  when  his  un- 
admitting  blue  eyes  would  have  said,  as  plain  as  speech, 
"  What  is  an  apple  ?  "  His  primrose  head  could  be  seen 
at  this  moment  fifty  yards  away  down  the  beach.  He 
was  watching  a  fisherman  scrape  hooks  with  an  old  clasp- 
knife.  He  had  just  spoken  to  the  man.  "  Dim 
Saesneg"  the  man  had  replied.  John  Willie  was  now 
watching  him,  not  as  a  man  who  scraped  hooks,  but  as 
the  possessor  of  a  new  and  admirable  defence  against 
questions. 

"  John  Wil " 

But  this  time  the  summons  was  broken  in  two  on 
Mr.  Garden's  lips.  He  had  opened  the  cottage  door, 
and  was  looking  mildly  within. 

The  orders  he  had  given  for  the  preparation  of  the 
double  cottage  for  his  wife  and  children  had  included 
the  lining  of  the  interior  with  match-boarding,  and  he 
had  understood  that  this  had  been  finished  a  week  and 
more  ago.  It  was  a  month  since  he  had  had  the  advice- 
note  from  the  timber  merchant  at  Forth  Neigr  that  the 
material  had  been  delivered.  And  so  it  had.  There  it 
was.  There,  too,  were  the  walls.  But  the  match-board- 
ing was  not  on  the  walls.  It  lay,  tongued  and  grooved, 
with  the  scantling  for  fixing  it,  just  where  the  timber 
merchant's  men  had  deposited  it  —  on  the  floor.  It  filled 
half  the  place.  On  the  top  of  it,  still  in  the  sacking  in 
which  they  had  been  sewn,  were  the  articles  of  furniture 
that  had  been  brought  from  Mr.  Garden's  Manchester 
attics  and  lumber-rooms.  The  rest  of  the  furniture  he 
had  taken  over  from  the  previous  tenants,  whom  some. 


24  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

vicissitude  of  fortune  had  taken  far  away  to  South 
Wales. 

Mr.  Garden  removed  his  glasses,  wiped  them,  replaced 
them,  and  then,  looking  over  the  top  of  them,  spoke : 

"  Where's  Daf ydd  Dans  ?  "  he  said. 

But  a  cry  from  his  wife,  who  had  come  up  behind  him, 
interrupted  him.  She  fell  back  again,  not  mildly,  but  in 
consternation. 

"  Nay,  nay,  Edward !  —  I  never "  she  gasped. 

"  Where's  Daf  ydd  Dafis  ?  "  Mr.  Garden  asked  again. 

"  Of  all  the  sights !  If  it  isn't  enough  to  —  I 
thought  you  told  me " 

Mr.  Garden  blew  his  nose  and  slowly  put  his  hand- 
kerchief away  again. 

"  Does  anybody  know  where  Dafydd  Dafis  is  ?  " 

"  —  and  us  fit  to  drop  for  a  cup  of  tea !  "  Mrs. 
Garden  continued.  "  Up  since  five  this  morning,  and 
come  all  that  way,  and  not  so  much  as  a  fire  lighted  nor 
a  kettle  on  to  boil " 

Mr.  Garden  was  looking  about  him  again,  as  if  he 
would  have  said,  "  These  appear  to  be  boards,"  when 
suddenly  his  wife  broke  energetically  in. 

"  Well,  it's  no  good  standing  looking  at  it ;  we  must 
all  turn  to,  that's  all. —  Jane !  Ellen !  —  Off  with 
them  jackets,  and  one  of  you  make  a  fire  while  the  other 
unpacks  the  groceries.  The  tea  and  things  are  in  that 
box  under  the  shawls  —  and  to  think  we  might  have 
come  in  wet,  and  not  even  a  winter-hedge  to  dry  our 
things  on !  —  There's  no  wood,  you  say  ?  Wood  enough, 
marry !  I  can  see  nothing  else !  —  And  the  tea  isn't 
there  ?  Then  run  out  and  buy  a  quarter  of  a  pound  to 
be  going  on  with;  I  won't  have  everything  unpacked 
now,  not  in  the  middle  of  this  joiner's  shop !  —  Tell  her 
where  the  grocer's  is,  Edward " 


THE  YEAE  DOT  25 

And  she  threw  off  her  lavender  dolman  and  bonnet, 
and  bustled  about,  like  the  capable  creature  she  was,  as 
ready  to  turn  to  as  if  she  had  never  had  a  day's  help  in 
her  life. 

A  little  girl  stood  at  the  door,  still  describing  rainbows 
from  her  forehead;  but  scarce  had  Ellen  asked  her 
where  the  grocer's  was  when  there  came  up  at  a  half 
run  Howell  Gruffydd  himself,  the  keeper  of  the  single 
shop  of  the  place.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  wore  an 
old  bowler  hat,  and  wiped  his  hands  on  the  coarse,  white 
apron  about  his  middle.  Over  his  glasses  Edward 
Garden  watched  his  approach,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
It  was  not  anger  that  kept  him  silent.  Already  he  had 
accepted  fait  accompli  —  or  in  this  case  inaccompli. 
Howell  Gruffydd  broke  into  sunny  smiles  of  welcome. 

"  How  d'you  do,  Mr.  Garden  ?  So  you  have  arrived  ? 
How  d'you  do,  madam?  How  d'you  do,  miss?  You 
had  a  pless-sant  journey  ?  " 

He  beamed  on  each  of  them,  and  then  beamed  on  them 
again. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Dafydd  Dafis  is  ?  "  Mr.  Garden 
asked  once  more. 

"  Indeed  I  do  not,  Mr.  Garden.  Perhaps  he  maake 
fenss  for  Squire  Wynne.  Perhaps  he  fiss." 

Then  Howell  Gruffydd's  eyes  fell  on  the  boards  as  if 
he  had  not  noticed  them  before.  He  gave  a  heartfelt 
"Aw-w-w!" 

"  It  is  not  finiss !  Dear  me,  dear  me !  Hwhat  a 
pitt-ty ! "  Then  he  became  cheerfully  explanatory. 
"  That  will  be  old  Mrs.  Pritchard  —  Dafydd  Dafis  he 
that  fond  of  her  as  if  she  wass  his  own  fless  and  blood. 
She  iss  nine-ty,  and  for  two  weeks  they  have  prayers 
for  her  in  the  chap-pil,  and  Doctor  Williams,  he  come 
from  Porth  Neigr,  and  that  is  five  s'illing,  but  the  pains 


26  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

in  her  body  was  soa  bad  she  not  know  hwhat  to  dooa !  — 
And  it  was  good  fiss-ing  these  three  weeks  and  more  — 
and  the  man  who  bring  the  boards,  he  say  they  well  sea- 
son, but  it  do  them  no  harm  to  wait  a  little  while 
longer " 

Mr.  Garden's  eyes  were  still  looking  over  his  glasses. 

"  Then  is  he  going  to  let  them  season  for  ever  ?  "  he 
said. 

Howell  Gruffydd  smiled  soothingly. — "  Naw-w-w ! 
Not  for  ev-GT,  Mr.  Garden !  " 

"  It's  a  good  job  he  hasn't  got  to  get  his  living  in 
Manchester,"  Mr.  Garden  observed. 

At  that  Howell  Gruffydd  clasped  his  hands,  as  if  he 
congratulated  himself  that  an  interesting  rumour  was 
confirmed. 

"  Indeed,  now,"  he  said,  "  they  do  say  that  the  pip-pie 
there  is  not  the  same  as  the  pip-pie  here !  " 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Garden's  voice  was  raised.  She 
was  on  her  knees  by  the  boxes,  and  could  not  find  the 
sugar  for  tea.  At  the  word  "  tea,"  Howell  Gruffydd 
broke  out  with  eager  hospitality. 

"  Indeed  it  is  cup  of  tea  I  came  about,"  he  said.  "  I 
say  to  Mrs.  Gruffydd,  l  They  come  all  this  way,'  I  say, 
t  and  they  will  be  want-ting  cup  of  tea  whatever.'  It  is 
all  ready  .  .  .  Eesaac  Oliver !  " —  he  called  from  the 
doorway  — "  run  to  your  mother,  and  say  we  be  there  in 
one  minnit !  And  do  not  answer  me  in  Weiss  when  there 
are  pip-pie  who  do  not  understand  it  —  where  are  your 
manners,  indeed !  "  He  turned  to  the  new-comers  again. 
"  You  s'all  have  cup  of  tea  whatever,  Mrs.  Garden  —  it 
cost  you  noth-thing  —  and  the  young  gentleman,  he  is 
down  at  the  boats,  but  Eesaac  Oliver  s'all  fetch  him  — 
come  on " 

Howell  Gruffydd,  the  grocer,  speaks  rather  better 


,     THE  YEAR  DOT  27 

English  to-day  than  he  spoke  then,  but  there  is  no  more 
quickness  and  keenness  in  his  black-lashed  light-blue 
eyes,  and  no  more  persuasiveness  in  his  purring  voice. 
To  the  half-unpacked  boxes  of  provisions  on  the  floor  he 
did  not  drop  an  eye.  He  led  the  way  past  half  a  dozen 
cottages  to  the  little  shop  with  showcards  and  paper 
packages  in  the  diminutive  window.  He  showed  them 
in  and  round  the  counter,  lifting  the  old  curtain  that 
shut  off  the  parlour  from  the  public  part  of  the  shop. 
Blodwen,  his  wife,  in  a  clean  apron  that  showed  the 
knife-edged  creases  of  its  ironing,  was  curtsying  as  if  she 
did  not  know  how  to  stop.  The  parlour  communicated 
with  the  inner  side  of  the  counter,  and  behind  the 
counter,  on  the  left,  was  the  window.  Bottles  and  can- 
isters stood  on  the  shelves,  and  below  them  were  innu- 
merable small  drawers.  The  fire-place  had  a  high 
mantelpiece  with  countless  china  objects  upon  it,  and  a 
large  dresser  with  blue  and  white  plates  stood  against 
the  inner  wall.  Next  to  the  dresser  was  a  tall  clock, 
with  a  ship  sailing  round  the  world  on  the  dial.  A 
gigantic  black  turnip  of  a  kettle  sent  out  a  cloud  of 
steam ;  cranpogs  were  keeping  hot  in  a  dish  within  the 
fender ;  and  near  them  an  enormous  marmalade-coloured 
cat  slept.  The  room  smelt  of  pepper  and  soap  and 
pickles  and  cheese,  and  Howell  Gruffydd's  guests  filled 
it.  He  helped  his  wife  to  wait  upon  them,  and  in  the 
intervals  attended  to  the  shop.  A  little  girl  came  in  for 
a  pennyworth  of  bicarbonate  of  soda,  and  Howell,  re- 
turning from  serving  her,  again  showed  his  white,  but 
false,  teeth. 

"  It  maake  the  tea  last  longer,"  he  said,  with  a  jerk 

of  his  head ;  "  but  there  is  no  bi "  he  smiled  again 

apologetically,  though  he  was  perfectly  well  able  to  pro- 
nounce the  word,  " —  there  is  none  of  that  in  this  tea, 


28  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Mrs.  Garden.  It  is  not  tea  like  the  fine  pip-pie  in  Man- 
chester drink,  but  we  are  simple  pip-pie  here.  Blodwen, 
the  cranpogs;  make  a  good  tea,  Mr.  Garden;  indeed, 
you  eat  noth-thing  ;  tut,  tut,  they  taake  up  no  room  !  — 
You  say  what  is  that,  young  gentleman?  That  is  a 
Weiss  Bible.  Aha,  you  cannot  read  that!  Nor  you 
cannot  say,  e  Llanf  airpwllgwyngyllgogerychyndro- 
bwlantysiligogogoch  !  '  —  You  try  ?  I  say  it  slow- 


Though  Howell  had  repeated  the  jaw-breaker  twenty 
times,  John  Willie  Garden  would  still  have  maintained 
the  silence  of  defence. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  It  is  easy  !  .  .  .  Well,  I  ask  you  rid- 
dle instead.  —  There  was  a  young  gentleman,  and  he 
have  eight  "  —  he  held  up  his  fingers  —  "  eight  —  sis- 
ters. And  every  one  of  them  has  a  brother.  Now  you 
tell  me  how  many  brothers  and  sisters  there  are  !  "  He 
winked,  but  respectfully,  at  Mr.  Garden. 

"  Nine,"  said  John  Willie  Garden  contemptuously, 
with  his  mouth  full  of  cranpogs  and  jam. 

Howell  showed  no  discomfiture.     He  laughed. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  He  say  nine  !  I  ask  him  again.  — 
There  was  a  young  gentleman  .  .  .  but,  dear  me,  there 
is  the  s'op  again  !  We  must  earn  our  living,  all  of  us. 
Business  before  pleas-sure  —  it  is  a  good  rule  -  " 

And  he  squeezed  through  to  the  counter  again,  while 
his  wife  boiled  more  eggs  and  spiked  the  cranpogs  on  a 
fork,  five  at  a  time. 

After  tea  Mrs.  Garden  was  seen  to  be  pulling  up  her 
skirt  and  to  be  feeling  for  her  pocket  in  the  folds  of  her 
petticoat;  but  with  an  imperceptible  gesture  her  hus- 
band restrained  her.  He  thanked  Gruffydds,  and  they 
returned  to  their  own  cottage,  Eesaac  Oliver  accompany- 
ing them  to  help  to  pile  up  the  matchboards  and  to  take 


THE  YEAE  DOT  29 

the  furniture  from  its  sacking.  The  cottage  was  much 
like  the  other  cottages  of  the  place.  Its  ceiling  con- 
sisted of  tacked-up  sheets,  inside  which  spiders  and  dust 
and  sand  whispered  and  the  wind  rippled.  The  black 
mantelpiece  had  brass  candlesticks  and  china  ornaments, 
and  on  one  side  of  the  tall  clock  was  a  grocer's  almanac- 
portrait  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  while  on  the  other  was  one 
of  Dr.  Kees,  the  President  of  the  Congregational  Union 
of  England  and  Wales.  A  sampler,  rather  difficult  to 
see  in  the  bad  light,  hung  immediately  within  the  door, 
and  the  window  opened  six  inches,  in  which  position  it 
had  to  be  propped  with  a  short  stick.  There  were 
geraniums  on  its  sill,  and  a  red  sausage  filled  with  sand 
kept  out  the  draught  when  it  was  closed.  The  outer 
door  of  the  second  cottage  was  to  be  permanently 
fastened  up  when  the  match-boarding  should  be  finished. 
The  cottages  adjoining  belonged  to  fishermen,  the  one 
with  a  wife  and  children,  the  other  a  widower  who  kept 
his  departed  wife  in  mind  by  means  of  a  number  of 
framed  and  glazed  cenotaphs,  consisting  of  a  black 
ground  with  white  angels  mourning  over  a  tombstone, 

and,  above,  the  words,  "  Er  Serchog  Cof " 

This  was  Llanyglo  when  Minetta  Garden  was  first 
brought  there  for  the  benefit  of  her  health.  The 
authors  of  the  Itineraries  had  not  thought  it  worth  men- 
tioning; Wyndham  has  nothing  to  say  about  it,  Skrine 
did  not  visit  it,  Pennant  passes  it  by.  But  you  may  find 
an  excellent  steel  engraving  of  it,  by  Copley  Fielding, 
full  of  accomplishment,  elegance  and  taste,  and  pub- 
lished by  the  London  Art  Union.  If  Minetta  did  well 
there,  it  was  Edward  Garden's  intention,  so  far  as  Ed- 
ward Garden's  intentions  were  ever  known,  to  let  or  sell 
his  cottage  and  to  build  a  more  convenient  house  of  his 
own.  There  was  stone  to  be  had  in  abundance  within 


30 

three  or  four  miles.  Mutton  was  plentiful  and  de- 
licious, beef  not  quite  so  plentiful  nor  quite  so  good. 
The  larger  grocery  supplies  could  be  sent  direct  from 
Manchester,  the  odds  and  ends  purchased  from  Howell 
Gruffydd.  Water  was  to  fetch  only  a  hundred  yards, 
and  lamp  oil,  etc.,  came  twice  a  week  in  the  cart  from 
Forth  Neigr.  And  soon  —  Edward  Garden  did  not 
know  yet,  and  if  he  did  not  know  you  may  be  sure 
nobody  else  did  —  Forth  Neigr  might  be  brought  nearer 
to  the  rest  of  the  world  than  ten  miles'  journey  by  road. 
For,  besides  being  a  spinner  and  a  good  many  other 
things,  Edward  Garden  was  a  Director  of  the  Ratchet 
and  Rawtonstall  Railway,  and,  as  is  the  compliment 
between  railway  and  railway,  those  little  silver  trinkets 
that  dangled  from  his  gold  watch-chain  —  little  grey- 
hounds and  locomotives,  winged  orbs  and  other  emblems 
of  speed  —  were  the  tokens  of  his  freedom  at  all  times 
over  other  lines,  and  of  his  personal  intimacy  with  men 
who  open  up  land,  not  a  field  at  a  time  with  a  plough, 
but  by  running  a  sinew  of  steel  through  it,  with  a  nerve 
alongside  that,  touched  at  any  point,  quickens  and  thrills 
throughout  its  length. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  quite  true  that  he  came  to  Llanyglo 
first  of  all  for  the  benefit  of  his  daughter's  health. 


II 

ITS    NONAGE 

AT  bottom,  neither  the  good  fishing  nor  the 
illness  of  ancient  Mrs.  Pritchard  had  been  the 
real  cause  of  Dafydd  Dafis's  procrastination  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  match-boarding  —  any  more  than  those 
greased  cartridges  were  the  real  cause  of  the  Mutiny. 
He  was  merely  vindicating  the  claims  of  a  temperament 
that  kept  him,  and  would  always  keep  him,  poor,  yet  a 
power.  He  was  a  day-labourer,  whom  anybody  could 
hire  to  build  a  wall,  mend  a  thatch  or  caulk  a  boat; 
but  —  and  this  was  the  secret  of  his  influence  —  he  had 
a  harp  in  his  cottage.  In  a  glorious  baritone  voice  he 
sang  Mentra  Gwen,  Y  Deryn  Pur,  and  lorn  songs  of 
love  and  wild  songs  of  battle.  More  than  that,  he  sang 
penillion;  and  as  penillion  —  which  is  an  extempore 
form  of  song  into  which  you  may  plunge  at  any  point 
you  please,  provided  you  finish  pat  and  triumphant 
with  the  double  bar  —  as  penillion  concerns  itself 
mainly  with  two  themes,  namely,  the  loved  mountains 
and  lakes  of  Cambria,  and  quick  and  topical  inventions 
of  personal  gossip,  Dafydd  Dafis  held  his  hearers  both 
by  their  deeper  sentiments  and  their  lighter  foibles.  He 
was  a  spare  and  roughly  clad  man  of  thirty,  unmarried, 
with  a  kindling  eye,  a  handsome  nose,  and  a  ragged 
dark  moustache;  and  when  his  head  was  bowed  by  the 
side  of  his  harp,  all  the  life  of  him  seemed  to  run  out 
into  the  lean  and  roughened  fingers  on  the  strings. 

He  came  to  see  Edward  Garden  about  that  match- 

31 


32  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

boarding  on  the  Saturday  morning,  bringing  a  youth 
of  eighteen  with  him.  Edward  Garden,  who  had  had 
experience  of  the  Welsh  in  Liverpool,  which  is  the 
capital  of  Wales,  received  him  with  resignation.  Fair 
and  softly  goes  far  in  a  day,  and  he  knew  that  the 
luxury  of  chiding  the  bard  of  Llanyglo  would  prove  a 
dear  one  did  Mrs.  Garden  find  her  egg  supply  suddenly 
fail  and  the  Llanyglo  cows  mysteriously  cease  to  yield 
milk. 

His  forbearance  was  rewarded.  Before  he  departed 
for  Manchester  on  the  Monday  morning  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  Dafydd  Dafis  and  the  youth 
actually  begin  the  job.  No  doubt  it  would  be  finished 
by  the  time  divinely  appointed  for  its  finishing. 

But  whether  Dafydd  Dafis  sang  much  as  he  worked, 
or  worked  a  little  as  he  sang,  remained  an  open  question. 

Now  in  whatever  other  respects  Llanyglo  may  have 
changed,  its  air  then  was  the  same  air  that  the  Guide 
Book  so  justly  praises  to-day.  Minetta  felt  the  benefit 
of  it  at  once.  During  her  illness  she  had  had  her  dark 
hair  close-cropped ;  for  fear  of  taking  cold,  she  still  wore 
a  red  "  pirate  "  cap,  that  is,  a  cone  of  knitted  wool  with 
a  bob  at  the  peak  that  fell  on  one  side  of  her  head :  and 
for  the  same  reason  she  wore  black  stockings  pulled  well 
up  over  the  bamboo-like  joints  of  her  bony  knees.  She 
was  a  slight,  dark  pixy  of  a  child,  on  whom  so  much  care 
had  been  expended  that  she  had  begun  to  care  for  her- 
self and  to  talk  wisely  about  draughts  and  wet  feet ;  and 
sometimes  she  consoled  herself  for  the  loss  of  her  hair 
by  repeating  her  mother's  assurance,  that  it  would  grow 
the  more  strongly  afterwards. 

But  within  a  fortnight  of  the  Gardens'  settling  at 
Llanyglo  there  was  no  further  thought  of  taking  her 
back  home  until  the  cold  weather  should  come.  Her 


ITS  NONAGE  33 

doll's-house  and  paint-box  were  sent  for.  Her  health 
continued  to  improve.  By  and  by  she  was  to  be  found 
squatted  down  by  the  sand-blown  palings,  surrounded 
by  the  Llanyglo  children,  keeping  a  shop,  of  which  the 
commodities  were  shells,  pebbles,  starfish  and  the  like. 
Her  dolls  and  their  house  were  neglected.  But  the 
other  little  girls,  who  had  seen  these  wonders  once, 
sometimes  lingered  wistfully  about  Mrs.  Garden's  door, 
looking  within,  and  whispering,  "  There  it  is,  Gwladys 
—  see,  by  the  cloch " 

Long  before  the  match-boarding  of  a  single  room  was 
completed,  John  Willie  Garden,  whom  at  first  his 
mother  had  not  been  able  to  drive  out  of  doors,  had  lost 
interest  in  Dafydd  Dafis,  his  sawing,  his  hammering, 
and  his  songs.  He  disappeared  by  the  half-day  together. 
It  was  a  holiday  time  at  the  school  by  the  Baptist 
Chapel,  and,  with  Eesaac  Oliver  Gruffydd  and  other 
youngsters  as  his  companions,  he  scrambled  among  the 
rocks  at  the  base  of  the  Trwyn,  or  climbed  the  head- 
land itself,  or  digged  for  bait,  or  went  out  in  the  boats, 
or  fished  for  crabs  with  split  mussels  off  the  jetty  end 
(he  stuffed  his  catch  up  underneath  his  blue  jersey, 
where  the  animals  crawled  about  on  his  friendly  and 
naked  skin) .  The  rainbow  curves  of  the  children  ceased 
when  he  or  Minetta  appeared,  but  they  continued  as  a 
salute  to  Mrs.  Garden.  The  weather  continued  superb : 
it  rained  scarcely  at  all.  The  mountains  were  never  for 
two  hours  the  same ;  the  sea  in  the  evenings  was  mother- 
of-pearl  ;  and  the  rising  moon  seemed  to  stand  up  on  it, 
like  the  lateen  of  a  felucca  of  gold. 

Mrs.  Garden  sent  to  Manchester  for  her  tricycle. 

Then  the  school  by  the  Baptist  Chapel  re-opened, 
and  for  some  days  John  Willie,  hanging  idly  about 
and  listening  to  the  droning  within,  was  undecided 


34  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

whether  to  give  the  insulting  cry  of  liberty  or  to  lament 
that  he  was  left  to  his  own  devices.  He  himself  would 
not  have  to  go  back  to  school  till  the  middle  of  Septem- 
ber. Then  he  still  further  enlarged  his  circle  of  ac- 
quaintance. He  attached  himself  to  a  farmer's  lad, 
who  shot  rabbits  of  an  evening  among  the  sandhills, 
and,  after  being  allowed  to  fire  the  gun,  gave  his  cata- 
pult away  to  a  "  kid."  July  passed.  The  match- 
boarding  progressed  by  fits  and  starts.  It  was  now 
Minetta  who  impeded  its  progress.  Dafydd  Dafis  loved 
her  as  if  she  had  been  his  own  child,  and  told  her  stories 
of  dragons  and  knights  and  enchantments  and  fairies, 
and  sang  Mentra  Gwen  to  her,  all  by  the  hour  together, 
careless  whether  Edward  Garden  paid  him  for  those 
same  hours  or  not. 

With  the  passing  of  August,  Llanyglo  had  made  far 
more  difference  to  the  Gardens  than  the  Gardens  had 
to  Llanyglo.  Indeed,  Llanyglo  looked  like  absorbing 
them  altogether,  as  animals  not  ultimately  capable  of 
domestication  are  sucked  back  into  the  feral  state.  In 
the  matter  of  dress,  for  example,  they  had  deteriorated 
alarmingly.  Half  his  days  John  Willie  spent  in  and 
out  of  the  water  without  a  stitch  on  him,  and  he  no 
longer  had  a  pair  of  sand-shoes  to  his  name. —  And 
Minetta  ?  First  she  lost  the  bob  from  the  peak  of  her 
red  "  pirate  "  cap,  and  then  the  cap  itself  was  cast  aside. 
From  careful  nightly  brushings  of  her  "  new  "  pleated 
navy-blue  frock  with  the  white  braid,  she  allowed  the 
pleats  to  get  full  of  sand,  and,  where  the  prints  of  her 
ribbed  soles  had  been,  now  her  bare  feet  patterned  the 
beach.  Her  bamboo  legs  were  brown  as  seaweed  and 
barked  up  the  shins;  and  when  (with  a  totally  aban- 
doned display  of  knickers)  she  emptied  her  shoes  of 
sand,  she  would  sit  down  in  a  pool  as  soon  as  not. —  And 


ITS  NONAGE  35 

Mrs.  Garden  ?  Not  for  worlds  would  she  have  had  any- 
body from  Manchester  see  her  as  she  returned  on  her 
tricycle  from  bathing  among  the  Trwyn  rocks,  sessile 
on  the  saddle,  a  mackintosh  over  her  voluminous  bath- 
ing-dress, a  towel  cast  across  her  shoulders,  and  her 
plump  ivory  legs  rising  and  falling  on  the  pedals  like 
the  twin  cranks  of  a  vertical  human  engine.  Yes,  the 
Gardens  were  slipping  back  into  savagery.  They  were 
becoming  part  of  Llanyglo.  Manchester  seemed,  not  so 
much  a  hundred  miles,  as  a  hundred  years  away. 

And  when,  on  a  Monday  morning,  it  became  neces- 
sary that  Mrs.  Garden  should  put  on  her  garments  of 
civilisation  again  and  traverse  those  hundred  miles,  or 
years,  in  order  to  see  how  her  other  home  was  getting 
on,  the  whole  population  gathered  about  the  Royal  Hotel 
shandrydan  that  came  to  take  her  to  Forth  Neigr,  and 
tears  stood  in  eyes,  and  sobs  choked  throats,  and  shawls 
and  hands  and  handkerchiefs  were  waved  as  the  vehicle 
started  off  over  the  muffling  sandhills,  and  as  many 
promises  were  made  that  Minetta  and  John  Willie 
should  be  well  looked  after  as  if  she  had  been  departing 
never  to  return,  instead  of  coming  back  again  on  the 
Friday.  Howell  Gruffydd  picked  a  tear  from  his  eye 
with  his  little  finger,  and  spoke  of  the  mutability  of 
human  affairs. 

"  The  one  is  ta-a-ke,  the  other  left,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
all  change.  Dear  dear,  it  make  me  think  of  my  cousin 
Evan  Evans,  of  Carnarfon,  and  his  three  boys,  as  fine 
boys  as  ever  you  see,  and  so-a  hap-py,  all  living  under 
one  roof,  till  Mary  Evans  die  and  wass  buried,  and  the 
changes  come,  and  where  are  those  boys  now?  They 
are  scatter.  One  is  in  Bangor,  and  one  is  in  Menai 
Bridge,  and  one  is  in  Pwllheli.  Dear  me !  Dear  me ! 
Mrs.  Garden  was  a  very  kind  one.  There  was  no 


36  .     MUSHROOM  TOWN 

kinder  'ooman.  Al-ways  the  sa-a-me.  She  seem  like 
one  of  ourselves.  Well,  well " 

And  he  picked  away  another  tear,  as  grief-stricken 
as  if  he  had  been  reciting  an  epitaph  "  Er  Serchog  Cof 
Am  Amelia  Garden." 

Then,  when  on  the  Friday  she  duly  returned,  there 
was  as  much  rejoicing  as  if  she  had  been  a  sister,  come 
back  again  from  a  long  wandering. 

Mrs.  Garden  had  brought  back  with  her  in  the  Eoyal 
Hotel  conveyance  wellnigh  as  much  luggage  as  had  laden 
the  vehicle  on  their  first  coming ;  for  it  had  been  decided 
that  Minetta's  stay  was  to  be  still  further  prolonged. 
So  warm  clothing  had  been  brought,  and  more  blankets, 
and  a  screen  for  the  door,  and  a  small  family  med- 
icine-chest, and  Minetta's  Compendium  Box  of  Games. 
And  that  was  bad  news  for  John  Willie  Garden, 
for  it  brought  the  shadow  of  his  own  departure  near; 
and  yet  it  was  good  news  too,  for  it  seemed  to  promise 
a  more  sure  establishment  in  the  place,  with  per- 
haps another  visit  for  himself  during  the  Christmas 
holidays.  He  could  not  think  how  the  summer  days 
had  slipped  away,  and  grew  doleful  as  he  remembered 
how  few  of  them  now  remained. 

Then,  when  September  was  a  week  or  so  old,  he 
climbed  the  Trwyn  in  order  to  take  his  good-bye  look  at 
Llanyglo. 

A  straggling  row  of  cottages,  a  few  paths  over  the 
sandhills,  three  Chapels,  a  school,  and  a  few  scattered 
farms:  the  rest,  mountains,  sea,  and  air.  The  tide 
was  creaming  over  the  short  thumb  of  a  jetty,  and  the 
herd  of  small  black  cows  was  patrolling  the  beach. 
Morgan's  cottage,  Eoberts's  cottage,  their  own  cottage, 
not  more  than  a  dozen  other  cottages ;  and  then  Howell 
Gruffydd's  shop :  already  the  place  was  full  of  memories 


ITS  NONAGE  37 

for  John  Willie  Garden.  That  wide  pool  in  the  sands 
that  reflected  the  sky  had  not  been  there  a  fortnight  be- 
fore —  for  the  sea  had  now  lost  its  summer  look,  and 
it  changed  the  configuration  of  the  shore  at  night.  A 
puff  of  low-blown  smoke  showed  where  Dafjdd  Dafis 
was  giving  a  boat  a  coat  of  tar.  There  was  the  small 
crack  of  a  gun  —  John  Willie's  friend  was  shooting 
rabbits.  On  the  top  of  Mrs.  Koberts's  chimney  a  new 
flat  stone  had  been  placed,  and  a  new  staple  for  the 
shutter  had  been  driven  into  the  wall.  John  Willie 
had  still  no  stockings  on,  but  he  was  sensible  now  of 
the  wind  on  his  legs.  They  were  as  brown  as  rope. 
His  hands  too  were  brown  and  grimy,  and  smelt  pleas- 
ant. That  morning  he  had  been  helping  the  men  to 
get  in  the  winter  peat.  .  .  . 

So  he  watched,  and  at  tea-time  he  descended;  but 
already  he  was  making  up  the  exultant  tales  he  would 
tell  the  boys  of  his  form,  of  the  spanking  place  where 
his  father  had  taken  a  cottage  and  might  presently  be 
building  a  house.  He  would  boast  over  them  in  the 
Welsh  words  he  had  learned,  and  triumph  no  end  that 
they  did  not  understand  him.  Only  to  a  few  of  his 
special  friends  would  he  confide  the  meanings  of  his 
expressions  in  English. 

Three  days  later  he  was  doing  even  so,  at  Pannal 
School,  near  Harrogate,  in  Yorkshire. 

Mr.  Garden  came  to  Llanyglo  once  more,  bringing  a 
doctor  with  him  this  time  in  order  that  Minetta's  health 
might  be  authoritatively  reported  upon,  and  again  he 
departed.  The  cottages,  which  in  summer  had  been 
places  to  live  outside  of,  began  to  have  a  comfortable 
look  as  the  afternoons  drew  in.  Minetta  wore  her  boots 
and  stockings  again  now,  and  her  maroon  serge  frock 
with  the  white  collar,  and  Mrs.  Garden  put  her  tricycle 


38  MUSHROOM  TOWX 

away  in  the  little  lean-to  behind  the  house,  smothering 
the  bright  parts  with  vaseline  and  covering  it  up  with 
sacking.  The  last  —  the  very  last  —  piece  of  match- 
board had  been  nailed  in  its  place,  and  all  had  been 
pale  oak-varnished,  so  that  the  sheen  of  the  fire  could 
be  seen  in  the  walls.  The  glowing  peats  were  reflected 
too,  in  still  red  spots,  in  the  black  glass  rolling-pin,  the 
brass  candlesticks,  the  windows  of  the  dolls'  house,  the 
plates  and  lustre  jugs,  and  the  china  sitting  hen  where 
they  kept  the  eggs.  The  wind  began  to  hoot  in  the 
throat  of  the  chimney.  Mrs.  Garden's  ears  became 
accustomed  to  the  louder  falling  of  the  breakers;  soon 
the  cessation  of  this  noise  would  have  been  the  arresting 
thing.  October  wore  on.  There  was  very  little  fishing 
now.  Each  of  the  three  Chapels  had  a  week-night 
service,  and  nearly  everybody  went  to  all  three.  Twice 
the  schoolroom  was  thrown  open  for  concerts ;  but  most 
of  the  singing  took  place  in  the  kitchen.  Sometimes, 
on  the  edge  of  the  dark,  a  fantastic  irregular  shape 
would  be  seen,  rising  and  dipping  and  lurching  as  it 
approached  over  the  sandhills;  it  was  Dafydd  Dafis, 
carrying  on  his  back  the  wooden  case  that  contained 
his  harp.  Save  for  these  infrequent  diversions,  the 
winter  was  a  dead  time  at  Llanyglo.  The  hamlet  rolled 
itself  up  and  hibernated.  Mrs.  Garden  sometimes 
sighed  for  a  Halle  concert,  or  a  dance,  or  "  a  few  friends 
in  the  evening,"  but  she  bore  up  for  the  sake  of  the  dry 
and  sunny  and  exhilarating  days  and  the  good  they  did 
Minetta.  Minetta  got  out  her  dolls,  their  house,  and 
the  Compendium  Box  of  Games;  and  she  and  Gwladys 
Roberts  and  Morwenna  Morgan  and  Mary  Price,  with 
the  oil  lamp  on  the  table  and  the  firelight  glowing  low 
on  the  ceiling,  had  spring-cleanings  of  the  mimic  dwel- 
ling (to  which  the  Welsh  children  did  not  take  with  any 


ITS  NONAGE  39 

great  heartiness),  and  epidemics  among  the  dolls  (which 
were  more  interesting),  and  once  a  funeral  (to  which 
they  gave  themselves  rapturously).  They  played  Snap 
and  Fishponds,  and  then  Minetta  set  about  the  making 
of  a  picture  screen,  with  coloured  figures  which  she  cut 
from  the  Queen  and  Lady's  Pictorial  and  plain  ones 
which  she  coloured  with  her  paint-box. 

At  Christmas  Mr.  Garden  and  John  Willie  came 
down,  the  former  for  a  few  days,  John  Willie  for  a 
fortnight.  One  of  his  days  Mr.  Garden  spent  in  a 
visit  to  Squire  Wynne,  who  lived  at  the  Plas,  three  miles 
away.  The  sea  was  some  days  as  black  as  iron,  on 
others  as  white  as  ash  with  the  tumult  of  the  wind. 
There  was  snow  on  the  mountains,  but  little  at  Llanyglo. 
Even  John  Willie  did  not  want  to  bathe.  In  the  day- 
time he  tried  to  rig  up  a  sail  on  his  mother's  tricycle, 
so  that  he  might  coast  along  the  two  miles  of  beach 
before  the  wind;  at  night  he  often  walked  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  dimly  creaming  water,  and  stood  looking  out 
into  the  blackness,  or  else  at  the  Trwyn  Light,  two  reds 
and  a  white. 

Squire  Wynne,  the  former  owner  of  the  Royal  Hotel 
shandrydan,  was  the  ground  landlord  of  Llanyglo,  and 
the  reason  of  Edward  Garden's  Christmas  call  on  him 
was  —  still  quite  simply  and  on  Minetta's  account- — 
that  he  had  decided  to  build  and  wanted  certain  land  to 
build  on.  But  this  was  not  quite  the  simple  matter  it 
might  have  appeared  to  be.  With  this,  that,  and  the 
other,  the  Squire  floundered  in  a  morass  of  mortgages, 
and,  for  the  scraping  together  of  his  interest  money, 
could  scarce  have  re-papered  the  dilapidated  walls  of 
the  Plas  dining-room.  He  had  other  property  also, 
thirty  miles  down  the  coast,  which  he  had  never  the 
heart  to  go  and  see.  It  was  there  that  the  family  for- 


40  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

tunes  had  been  sunk.  A  score  of  broken  shaft-chimneys 
and  heaps  of  fallen  masonry  on  a  promontory  were  all 
he  had  to  show  for  the  good  Wynne  money  —  these,  and 
a  deed-box  full  of  scrip  and  warrants  which  you  could 
have  had  for  the  price  of  the  stamps  on  them.  For  that 
remote  volcanic  waste  had  been  a  happy  hunting-ground 
for  the  prospectus-monger  with  hopeful  views  on  paying 
quantities,  and  the  Squire  had  granted  more  concessions 
than  he  could  count.  It  was  to  be  presumed  that  some- 
body had  made  money  out  of  the  concessions,  if  not  out 
of  the  mines  themselves.  The  last  enterprise  had  been 
manganese. 

"  Let  me  pour  you  out  a  glass  of  port  first ;  it's  the 
only  thing  I  have  that  hasn't  some  sort  of  a  charge  on 
it,"  said  the  Squire.  He  was  a  heavy  man  of  near 
sixty,  the  owner  of  a  family  pew  in  Forth  Neigr 
Church,  a  stickler  for  rainbowing,  and,  in  a  feckless 
sort  of  way,  something  of  an  antiquary.  His  adher- 
ence to  the  three-bottle  habit  helped  to  make  the  for- 
tunes of  several  quacks  in  our  own  day,  who  advertise 
infallible  cures  for  the  neuritis  he  and  his  kind  have 
bequeathed  to  their  descendants.  The  only  sign  the 
Squire  himself  showed  of  this  was  a  slightly  ochreous 
eye. —  Then,  when  he  had  poured  out  the  port,  "  It's 
you  who  have  the  money  nowadays,"  he  said,  meaning 
by  "  you  "  Gladstonian  Liberals.  "  Look  at  this  ceil- 
ing of  mine.  There  isn't  a  ceiling  in  Wales  with  a  finer 
coffering,  but  look  at  the  state  it's  in !  —  And  that 
chandelier!  It  holds  forty  candles,  but  I  can't  afford 
'em !  This  is  what  /  use."  He  pointed  to  his  father's 
old  reservoir  colza  lamp  on  the  table. — "  And  I'll  show 
you  the  staircase  presently.  .  .  .  Sell  ?  It  won't  make 
sixpence  difference  to  me  one  way  or  the  other.  Which 
piece  is  it  you  want  ?  " 


ITS  NONAGE  41 

Mr.  Garden  told  him. 

"  Well,  you'd  better  see  my  man  about  it.  Sheard, 
Forth  Neigr,  next  to  the  corn-chandler's  shop.  Or  I'll 
see  him  if  you  like.  But  if  we  do  come  to  terms  I 
should  like  to  give  you  a  piece  of  advice." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  Edward  Garden  asked. 

"  I  suppose  you're  not  Welsh  by  any  chance  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I'm  half  Welsh,  and  things  jog  on  well  enough 
as  long  as  I'm  alive.  There  are  all  sorts  of  questions 
that  simply  don't  arise.  But  they're  a  queer  people 
here,  and  when  you  get  to  the  bottom  of  it,  practically 
the  question  of  landowning  resolves  itself  into  keeping 
on  the  right  side  of  Dafydd  Dafis,  if  you  see  what  I 
mean."  It  was  not  necessary  to  tell  Edward  Garden 
that,  but  he  begged  the  Squire  to  go  on. 

"  For  instance,"  the  Squire  continued,  "  I've  a  couple 
of  mortgages  foreclosing  any  time  now  —  Sheard  will 
tell  you  —  I  don't  even  know  who  the  mortgagees  are. 
But  if  they're  Welsh,  so  much  the  better  for  them.  I 
mean  if  they  introduce  changes,  or  go  at  things  like  a 
bull  at  a  gate,  they'll  wish  I'd  gone  on  paying  them 
interest.  A  smile  does  more  than  a  smack  here.  If 
they  inclose,  for  example " 

"  Ah,  this  new  Act " 

"  Or  any  other  Act.  There -"was  a  case  at  that  No 

Man's  Land  of  mine  over  there "  The  Squire 

jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  shafts  where 
the  family  fortunes  had  been  sunk.  "  An  Englishman 
came,  and  began  to  fence,  and  there  was  a  Dafydd  Dafis 
sort  of  fellow  there,  and  this  man  Eodgers  thought  that 
because  he  wore  strings  round  the  knees  of  his  corduroys 
he  wasn't  anybody  of  consequence  .  .  .  and  there  you 
are.  The  only  thing  Edward  the  First  could  do  with 


42  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

the  bards  was  to  destroy  them,  and  they're  the  same 
hreed  yet. —  So  that's  my  advice.  For  the  rest,  you'd 
better  see  Sheard.  Have  another  glass  of  port." 

And,  after  he  had  been  shown  the  magnificent  ruin  of 
a  staircase,  and  had  noted  without  showing  the  grass  on 
the  Squire's  paths  and  the  moss  in  the  Squire's  grass, 
Edward  Garden  thanked  the  Squire  for  his  advice  and 
took  his  leave.  He  was  able  to  come  to  terms  with 
Sheard,  and  in  the  following  spring  a  new  house  began 
to  go  up  in  Llanyglo. 

The  site  Edward  Garden  had  selected  for  his  house 
lay  a  little  way  behind  the  row  of  cottages,  over  the 
thatches  of  which  it  looked  out  to  the  sea.  Rock 
cropped  up  there,  amid  a  waste  of  bents  and  potentilla 
and  sea-thrift  and  thyme,  and  a  rill  slipped  over  moss 
and,  a  little  further  on,  disappeared  into  the  sand,  to 
emerge  again  down  by  the  shore.  From  a  stone  quarry 
on  the  Forth  Neigr  road  stone  was  still  being  got  for 
the  extension  of  Forth  Neigr  itself ;  and  it  would  actually 
be  nearer  to  bring  it  to  Llanyglo.  Sheard  saw  to  that 
also,  and  Edward  Garden,  taking  the  Squire's  advice, 
put  Dafydd  Dafis,  match-boarder,  in  charge  of  the  work. 
It  would  take  time,  but  it  would  save  time.  And,  so 
long  as  it  was  understood  that  it  was  Dafydd  Dafis  who 
might  say  to  this  man  "  Come,"  and  he  came,  and  to  the 
other  "  Go,"  and  he  went,  Edward  Garden  did  not  antici- 
pate difficulties  did  he  wish,  later,  to  "  stiffen "  his 
supply  of  labour  by  importing  a  plumber,  or  a  mason,  or 
a  carpenter  or  two  from  Manchester. 

So,  in  the  spring,  the  rock  was  cleared  and  chisels 
began  to  clink ;  and  John  Willie  Garden,  away  at  school 
in  Fannal,  could  scarce  contain  himself  until  the  sum- 
mer holidays  should  come.  He  sent,  by  letter,  the  most 
peremptory  specifications.  His  room  was  to  be  thus  and 


ITS  NONAGE  43 

thus,  and  not  otherwise.  The  letters  also  contained 
complaints  to  his  mother  that  his  health  was  seriously 
impaired  by  arduous  study;  so  was  the  health  of  his 
friend  Percy  Briggs:  indeed,  all  the  fellows  were  re- 
marking how  greatly  in  need  of  a  change  of  air  he  and 
Percy  seemed.  Mrs.  Garden's  chief  preoccupation  was 
that  the  new  house  should  have  water  upstairs  and  a  cup- 
board at  every  turn. 

And  as  that  was  the  first  building  of  their  own  that 
the  folk  of  Llanyglo  had  ever  seen,  its  progress  became 
their  daily  talk.  The  farmers  came  from  inland  to 
look  at  it,  and,  as  the  weather  grew  milder,  the  fisher- 
men no  longer  smoked  of  an  evening  under  the  shelter 
of  their  boats  down  by  the  jetty,  but  instead  made  a  kind 
of  club-house  of  the  triangular  pile  of  floor-boards  that 
the  Porth  ISTeigr  timber  merchant  presently  delivered. 
They  climbed  inside  this  slatted  prism,  hung  the  inter- 
stices with  sacking  as  a  protection  from  the  wind,  and 
smoked  and  talked,  while  the  stars  peeped  down  on 
them.  They  talked  of  progress  and  innovation,  and  of 
how  little  they  had  ever  thought  they  would  live  to  see 
such  a  change  as  this  on  the  face  of  their  sand-hills. 

"  But  it  will  not  be  as  big  as  the  Plas,  whatever,"  one 
of  them  would  remark,  not  so  much  as  belittling  Edward 
Garden's  new  house  as  in  order  to  correct  a  certain  tend- 
ency to  wild  and  disproportionate  talk.  Indeed,  they 
were  proud  of  Llanyglo's  growth.  Only  the  building 
of  another  chapel  could  have  made  them  prouder. 

"  Aw-w-w,  William  Morgan,  h-what  a  way  to  talk !  " 
another  would  reply.  "  You  talk  like  a  great  simple- 
ton! You  say  next  it  is  not  so  big  as  the  railway 
station  at  Porth  Neigr!  Indeed,  the  Plas  is  big-ger, 
but  it  is  di-lap-i-date,  a  pit-ty  to  see,  and  the  stair- 
case —  aw-w-w  dear !  They  do  say  Squire  Wynne  he 


44  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

go  in  lit-tle  bedroom,  not  to  fall  through  the  floor !  " 

"  And  the  stables  is  lock  up,  all  but  one  stall,  and 
you  shan't  find  a  handful  of  corn  there,  no,  not  more 
than  will  feed  one  horse !  " 

"  There  was  sixteen  horses  there " 

"  And  the  Squire,  he  hunt " 

"  It  all  go  to  that  Abercelyn  in  the  mines  —  thou- 
sands of  pounds ! " 

"  There  is  land  here  to  build  stables  if  Mr.  Garden 
wiss " 

"  Indeed,  Hugh  Eoberts,  if  he  build  any  more  we 
be  bigger  than  Porth  Neigr,  whatever ! " 

And  this  hyperbole  always  raised  a  laugh.  Porth 
Neigr,  besides  being  the  head  of  the  railway,  had  a 
market  place,  two  banks,  a  stone  quay,  a  court  house, 
and  an  English  Church. 

The  house  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  by  the  time 
John  Willie  Garden  came  again,  in  July,  it  had  reached 
the  first  floor.  Long  rows  of  roof  slates  were  stacked 
under  a  temporary  shed,  and,  as  if  he  had  not  had  les- 
sons enough  in  the  school  by  the  Baptist  Chapel,  Eesaac 
Oliver  Gruffydd  did  multiplication  sums  and  Welsh- 
English  exercises  upon  them.  John  Willie's  eyes 
danced  when  they  saw  the  scaffolding  and  ladders.  He 
was  six  rungs  up  a  ladder  before  you  could  have  turned 
round.  He  was  up  that  ladder  and  down  a  second  and 
up  a  third  almost  as  quickly,  nor  did  he  take  breath 
until,  short  of  swarming  up  the  scaffold-poles,  he  had 
stood  on  the  topmost  point  of  the  structure.  Then,  with 
the  air  of  something  accomplished,  he  condescended  to 
the  level  ground  again. 

Half  of  Dafydd  Dafis's  men  lodged  at  one  or  other  of 
the  farms  and  cottages,  to  the  tenants  of  which  they  were 
bound  by  ties  of  consanguinity ;  the  others  put  up  at  the 


ITS  NONAGE  45 

little  alehouse  half  a  mile  out  on  the  Forth  Neigr  road, 
which  served  also  as  a  shop  for  the  outlying  farms. 
Dafydd  paid  their  wages,  and  they  had  built  a  hearth 
near  the  mortar  heap  for  the  cooking  of  their  dinners. 
John  Willie  dined  daily  with  them.  Never  was  such 
importance  as  that  with  which  he  came  nigh  to  burst- 
ing. The  rocks  and  the  rabbits,  the  boats  and  the 
Trwyn,  no  longer  called  him ;  here  was  not  only  a  house 
going  up,  but  his  house.  In  his  father's  absence  he 
could  give  orders.  He  became  knowing  in  limes  and 
mortars,  expert  in  the  use  of  the  plumb  and  level.  He 
strutted  about  with  a  square,  setting  it  carelessly  against 
angles,  and  derided  Eesaac  Oliver  and  his  slates  and 
long-division  sums.  The  eaves-level  was  reached;  they 
began  to  get  the  roof-timbers  *up ;  the  sandhills  resounded 
with  hammering  and  sawing ;  and  the  upper  part  of  the 
house  began  to  resemble  a  toast-rack  against  the  sky. 
Only  one  stone  remained  to  be  set  in  position.  This  was 
the  gable-stone  with  "  E.  G.,  1882"  upon  it.  John 
Willie  warned  Eesaac  Oliver  that  the  slates  on  which 
he  ciphered  would  soon  be  required. 

As  matters  turned  out,  he  was  wrong  in  this.  Al- 
ready three  men,  a  plumber,  his  mate,  and  a  carpenter, 
had  been  down  from  Manchester,  and  fresh  supplies  of 
timber  —  sections  of  staircase  and  so  on  —  had  come  in 
carts  over  the  sound-deadening  sandhills.  But  how  all 
at  once  the  work  came  to  a  sudden  stop  —  how  that  toast- 
rack  stood  against  the  sky  for  another  year  without  a 
slate  upon  it  —  and  how  Edward  Garden,  away  in  Man- 
chester, had  once  more  to  accept  the  line  of  least  resist- 
ance, while  his  son  loitered  disconsolately  about  the  un- 
finished building  until  something  even  more  exciting 
claimed  his  interest  —  to  tell  these  things  another  chap- 
ter had  better  be  begun. 


Ill 

THE    MINDEB 

THE  land  on  which,  as  Squire  Wynne  had  told 
Edward  Garden,  other  mortgages  were  being  fore- 
closed, began  a  furlong  or  so  behind  the  unfinished  house, 
reaching  to  and  including  one  of  the  farms  —  Fotty, 
John  Pritchard's.  It  formed  a  three-hundred-yards- 
wide  strip  of  bents  and  rough  grazing,  which  spread  out 
inland  with  Fotty  in  the  middle  of  its  base.  The  mort- 
gagee was  Squire  Wynne's  Liverpool  wine-merchant, 
and  he  had  accepted  the  mortgage  partly  because  he  did 
not  wish  to  be  at  cross-purposes  with  such  of  Squire 
Wynne's  friends  as  were  good  customers  of  his,  and 
partly  because  he  was  not  very  likely  to  get  anything 
else  in  settlement  of  a  longish  account.  This  account 
had  been  reckoned  off  the  sum  advanced,  which,  besides, 
was  based  on  a  low  valuation;  and,  not  wanting  the 
land  himself,  he  was  ready  enough  to  sell  to  any  optimist 
who  did. 

The  land  remained  "in  the  possession  of  the  wine- 
merchant  for  exactly  eleven  weeks.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  he  had  found  his  optimist  in  the  person  of  Terry 
Armfield. 

And  who  was  Terry  Armfield,  that  his  affairs  should 
thus  become  mixed  up  with  those  of  Llanyglo  ? 

Well,  the  name  of  one  of  his  grandfathers,  which  need 
not  be  mentioned,  is  to  be  found,  in  certain  circum- 
stances of  notoriety,  in  Gomer  Williams's  History  of 

46 


THE  MINDER  47 

the  Liverpool  Privateers;  and  that  of  his  father  is 
associated  with  the  bright  story  of  the  tea-clippers. 
Thus  a  certain  adventurousness  in  Terry  may  perhaps 
be  accounted  for.  But  whence  the  rest  of  him  derived 
was  a  mystery.  Belated  young  Tractarians  who  burn 
incense  in  their  monastic  bedrooms  were  no  more  com- 
mon in  Liverpool  then  than  they  are  to-day.  In 
appearance,  Terry  was  an  ill-adjusted  compromise 
between  an  ascetic  and  a  young  man  about  town.  He 
was  tall  and  of  a  buoyant  movement,  excellently  dressed, 
had  burning  and  ecstatic  brown  eyes,  and  was  pos- 
sessed of  an  extraordinary  power  of  impressing  people 
as  long  as,  and  even  a  little  longer  than,  he  was  actually 
in  their  presence.  This  was  all  very  well  as  long  as  he 
spoke  only  of  pictures  that  this  self-made  merchant 
ought  to  buy,  or  of  books  without  which  some  shipper's 
newly  formed  library  would  be  incomplete.  He  really 
knew  a  little  about  these  things,  as  also  he  did  about 
architecture  and  engravings,  vestments  and  Ritualism 
and  furniture.  The  trouble  began  when  he  went  beyond 
them.  Wealthy  business  men,  looking  up  as  Terry 
lounged  into  their  offices,  would  put  up  their  hands 
defensively,  cry,  "  It's  no  good,  Terry  —  I  won't  listen," 
but  would  presently  find  themselves  listening  none  the 
less.  It  was  not  that  Terry  was  plausible.  Plausible 
was  not  the  word.  He  persuaded  you  only  because  he 
was,  for  the  time  being,  overwhelmingly  persuaded  him- 
self. His  capacity  for  enthusiasm  was  astonishing. 
Circumstances  having  driven  him  from  his  true  voca- 
tion (the  Church)  into  business,  he  traded  as  it  were 
under  Letters  of  Marque  that  had  had  an  apostolic 
blessing.  House-property,  leases,  patents,  picture- 
exhibitions,  concessions,  bills  for  discount,  Irish- 
harvester  agencies,  philanthropy  on  a  paying  basis, 


48  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

and  a  hundred  even  vaguer  values  —  some  idealistic 
strain  in  Terry  so  moved  the  dullard-on-the-make  that 
he  had  a  new  light  on  business  as  a  benison,  and  on 
money-making  as  something  nobler  than  he  had  sup- 
posed. What  such  an  one  commonly  lacked,  Terry  was 
full  and  running  over  with ;  and  the  end  of  the  matter 
frequently  was  that  it  was  judged  to  be  worth  a  certain 
amount  of  risk  to  be  on  the  side  of  Terry  and  the 
angels. 

Of  course,  Terry  ought  to  have  been  locked  up  as  a 
public  danger.  Anybody  but  Terry  would  have  been 
locked  up.  But  you  cannot  lock  innocence  and  raptur- 
ous good  faith  up.  Terry,  if  you  had  locked  him  up, 
would  merely  have  sent  for  his  crucifix,  plunged  into 
fresh  scheming,  and  would  have  come  out  again  as  run- 
ning over  with  piracies  and  the  humanities  as  ever. 

So  Terry  Armfield,  who  hitherto  had  never  heard  of 
Llanyglo  and  of  whom  Llanyglo  had  never  heard,  took 
over  Fotty  and  the  strip  of  land  that  ran  down  to 
Edward  Garden's  unfinished  house,  with,  as  it  happened, 
extremely  notable  results. 

For  nobody  who  knew  Terry  ever  supposed  that  he 
made  purchases  of  real  estate  solely  upon  his  own 
account.  He  represented  others ;  and  it  is  perhaps  sig- 
nificant that  the  nickname  by  which  he  was  known 
among  the  members  of  the  Syndicate  which  made  use 
of  him  was  borrowed  from  the  slang  of  the  "  swell  mob." 
He  was  called  "  The  Minder." 

Now  the  Minder,  as  you  ought  not  to  know,  is  the 
gentleman  who  makes  himself  charming  to  you  while 
the  others  consult  about  how  much  you  may  be  worth, 
and  how  you  may  most  conveniently  be  made  worth  less. 
Often,  like  Terry,  he  himself  is  not  in  the  real  councils 
of  his  allies.  They  want  his  looks,  his  candours,  his 


THE  MINDER  49 

repute,  his  address,  and  in  Terry's  case  they  especially 
wanted  his  powers  remarkable  of  persuasion.  Until  it 
should  be  decided  what  people  were  to  be  persuaded  of, 
Terry  minded. 

Little  did  John  Pritchard,  tenant-farmer  of  Fotty, 
dream  of  the  solicitude  with  which  his  farm  was  re- 
garded by  a  number  of  people  who  had  never  seen  it 
and  did  not  want  ever  to  see  it.  Little  did  he  think  that 
that  middling  oat-bearing  land  was  being  minded  and 
brooded  upon.  Little  did  he  imagine  what  interest, 
what  benevolence,  what  affectionate  regard  ...  or,  to 
put  it  in  plain  English,  he  had  no  notion  whatever  that, 
instead  of  having  Squire  Wynne  for  a  landlord,  he  was 
now  the  tenant  of  a  set  of  prospectus-vendors  of  whom 
two  or  three  were  the  same  men  who  had  held  those  hope- 
ful views  on  the  paying-quantities  of  manganese  that 
could  be  obtained  from  that  other  property  of  Squire 
Wynne's,  the  Abercelyn  mines,  thirty  miles  further 
down  the  coast. 

The  Corporation  did  not  insist  on  manganese  or  on 
anything  else.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  accommodating 
in  the  extreme.  You  paid  your  money  'and  took  your 
choice  what  commodity  you  found  on  its  properties ;  you 
could  have  had  tin,  iron,  copper,  lead,  anything  you 
happened  to  fancy.  It  merely  wished  to  be  able  to  show, 
in  case  of  need,  its  indefeasible  title  to  real  land,  at 
Llanyglo  or  anywhere  else,  but  the  further  from  civilisa- 
tion the  better.  It  would  be  safer,  and  really  not  much 
dearer,  to  buy  Pritchard's  farm,  than  it  would  be  to 
have  to  confess  in  open  Court  that  the  tin  or  iron  or 
lead  shares  of  which  it  was  trying  to  create  the  value, 
unfortunately  happened  to  have  Pritchard's  farm  sitting 
on  the  top  of  them. 

"  No,  we'd  better  get  hold  of  a  bit  of  real  land  from 


50  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

somewhere/'  the  Syndicate  had  said.  "  Better  have  it 
in  a  new  name  too.  All  Abercelyn  names  exempt  for 
three  years.  Who  is  there?  .  .  .  What  about  Arm- 
field?" 

All  had  agreed  that  Terry  would  make  an  excellent 
Minder. 

When,  in  course  of  time,  the  Syndicate  first  heard 
from  Terry  (who  heard  it  goodness  knows  where) 
that  "  glo  "  was  the  Welsh  word  for  "  coal,"  it  was  on 
the  point  of  plumping  for  coal  without  further  question. 

"  What  more  do  you  want  ?  "  it  asked  itself.  "  '  Glo ' 
— '  coal ' ;  there  you  are.  Place-name.  Awful  lot  in  a 
genuine  place-name.  Find  it  on  an  old  map,  to  show 
that  we  didn't  invent  it,  and  the  whole  thing  settles 
itself.  There's  bound  to  be  coal.  Sure  to  be.  They 
didn't  call  it  that  for  nothing.  All  ground's  got  some- 
thing in  it.  /  say  coal.  On  the  face  of  it.  It  seems 
to  me  Providential.  (Shut  up,  Abercelyn;  we're  talk- 
ing about  Llanyglo  now.)  .  .  .  Who  says  coal, 
then?"  .  .  . 

But  Llanyglo  was  not  destined  to  be  a  colliery  village. 
Latticed  shaft-heads  were  not  to  rise  under  the  Trwyn, 
nor  men  to  descend  in  cages  to  the  galleries  deep  under 
the  sandhills.  Edward  Garden's  house  was  not  to  be- 
come a  mine-manager's  residence,  nor  a  coal-quay  to  be 
constructed  where  the  wooden  jetty  stuck  out  like  a 
stumpy  thumb  into  the  sea. — Nevertheless,  it  almost 
looked  at  one  time  as  if  it  might  have  been  so. 

The  Syndicate's  registered  offices  were  within  a  hun- 
dred yards  of  Lime  Street  Station,  and  Terry,  looking 
forth  from  an  upper  window,  could  see  the  august  portico 
of  St.  George's  Hall  and  the  cabs  and  steam-trams  run- 
ning to  and  fro  past  it.  He  sat  day  by  day  at  a  high 
sloping  desk,  perched  on  a  tall  stool.  A  small  pile  of 


THE  MINDER  51 

letters  lay  by  his  side,  weighted  with  a  surveyor's  reel- 
tape,  and  on  a  shelf  above  the  press  with  the  dumb-bell 
arm,  thrust  among  directories  and  files,  were  Stones  of 
Venice  and  The  Christian  Year.  There  was  a  green 
cardboard  shade  on  the  double-elbowed  gas-bracket,  and 
on  the  wall  near  it  hung  an  ebony-edged  T-square  and  a 
number  of  French  curves.  There  was  a  second  stool  for 
callers,  and  in  a  small  outer  office  a  youth  of  sixteen 
read  The  Boys  of  London  and  New  York  and  chewed 
root-liquorice.  The  place  was  shabby,  as  befitted  a 
hole-in-corner  enterprise,  but  Terry  saw  not  that  shabbi- 
ness.  He  had  splendour  enough  in  his  own  visions. 
He  did  not  look  very  busy,  but  he  was.  A  dozen  in- 
spired and  half-baked  schemes  fermented  in  his  head, 
and  besides  these,  he  was  minding  Llanyglo  —  the  thyme 
and  wild  pansies  and  butterflies  of  its  sandhills,  the 
glaucous  blue  sea-holly  of  its  shore,  its  heathery  Trwyn, 
its  coal  or  what-not  underfoot,  and  its  crystal  air  over- 
head —  especially  its  crystal  air  overhead.  .  .  . 


IV 


ON  the  forenoon  of  that  day  on  which  work  on 
Edward  Garden's  house  suddenly  ceased,  Dafydd 
Dafis,  sitting  astride  of  a  coping,  was  singing  as  he 
drove  heavy  cut  nails  into  a  beam.  His  song  was 
martial,  and  it  almost  made  his  joinering  warlike.  The 
burden  of  it  was  that  Cambria's  foes  (here  a  bang  with 
the  hammer)  should  fall  beneath  the  sword  (another 
bang)  as  the  pine  falls  when  the  levin  (bang)  flashes 
from  the  cloud  that  hides  the  head  of  Arenig  (bang,  and 
a  nail  well  home) .  John  Willie  Garden,  who  had  heard 
somewhere  that  coins  of  the  current  mintage  were 
placed  in  cavities  in  foundation  stones,  was  chipping  a 
hollow  in  the  bedding  of  the  "  E.G."  stone  for  the  recep- 
tion of  a  well-brightened  sixpence  and  a  document  in 
his  own  handwriting,  that  should  tell  future  ages  how 
one  John  Willie  Garden  had  lived  and  had  done  thus 
and  thus.  The  sun  was  hot;  the  new  timbers  were  as 
bright  as  John  Willie's  own  primrose-coloured  hair 
against  the  intense  blue ;  and  the  workmen  below  seemed 
to  stand  on  their  shadows  as  lead  soldiers  stand  on  their 
little  bases  of  metal.  John  Willie  finished  his  cavity, 
and  then  clambered  up  to  the  ridge-tree.  There,  put- 
ting his  hands  behind  his  head,  he  lay  on  his  back,  his 
dangling  legs  balancing  him  below.  He  blinked  up  at 
the  sky,  and  from  time  to  time  called  across  to  Dafydd 

Dafis,  "  Peth  a  elwir  (whatever  the  English  word  might 

62 


"DIM  SAESNEG"  53 

be)  yn  Cymraeg,  Dafydd  ?  "  Then  Dafydd  would  give 
him  the  Welsh,  and  he  would  practise  it  softly. 

It  was  just  on  the  stroke  of  midday  when  Dafydd 
abruptly  broke  off  his  singing  in  the  middle  of  a  word. 
John  Willie,  blinking  up  at  the  blue,  waited  for  him  to 
resume;  as  he  did  not  do  so,  John  Willie  turned  his 
head.  Dafydd  was  looking  away  over  the  sandhills  in 
the  direction  of  John  Pritchard's  farm. 

John  Willie  sat  up. 

"Who  is  it?  "he  asked. 

Dafydd  continued  to  look  tinder  his  hand. — "  Indeed, 
it  look  like  Mr.  Sheard,"  he  muttered,  "  but  he  have 
strangers  with  him.  It  is  Mr.  Sheard's  carr-adge,  what- 
ever. .  .  .  Hugh  Roberts!"  He  called  to  the  men 
down  below,  who  were  making  ready  for  their  midday 
meal.  He  said  something  in  Welsh  to  them,  and  they 
too  looked. 

Mr.  Sheard's  governess-cart  was  drawn  up  by  the 
earth-wall  half  a  mile  away,  and  from  it  three  figures 
had  descended.  They  climbed  over  the  wall  and  began 
to  cross  the  sandhills.  One  of  them  walked  slowly  and 
somewhat  after  the  manner  of  a  clock-work  toy,  as  if  he 
was  pacing  a  distance;  and  another,  after  looking  this 
way  and  that  about  him,  moved  off  to  the  right,  appar- 
ently also  pacing.  He  stopped  and  held  up  his  hand, 
and  then  returned,  laying  out  along  the  ground  as  he 
went,  something  that  made  a  little  glitter  in  the  sun. 
They  came  together  again,  and  seemed  to  confer.  Then 
over  the  earth-wall  John  Pritchard  climbed,  and  William 
Sheard  went  to  meet  him.  After  that  they  all  pointed, 
in  various  directions. 

Dafydd  Dafis,  from  the  top  of  the  pale  yellow  toast- 
rack,  called  something  else  in  Welsh,  too  quick  for  John 
Willie  to  hear.  Then  he  gazed  again.  Something  else 


54:  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

was  coming  along  the  Forth  ISTeigr  road.  Dafydd,  who 
had  the  eyes  of  a  river-poacher,  knew  both  the  cart  and 
the  two  men  who  rode  on  the  load.  It  drew  nearer. 
Sheard  and  the  two  men  seemed  to  be  explaining  some- 
thing to  John  Pritchard.  After  a  time  John  Pritchard 
walked  away. 

Dafydd  Dafis  descended  from  the  roof,  followed  by 
John  Willie  Garden.  He  had  put  his  hammer  into  his 
pocket;  his  little  heap  of  cut  nails  remained  on  the 
coping.  The  men  had  gathered  into  a  cluster,  but  none 
went  over  the  sandhills  to  see  what  was  happening. 

Then  a  frequently  repeated  word  struck  John  Willie's 
ear.  He  turned  to  Dafydd  Dafis. 

"  Peth  a  elwir  f  adwydd  '  yn  Saesneg,  Dafydd  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Dafydd  Dafis  looked  as  if  he  had  never  sung  in  his 
life. 

"  Post  —  hedgestake,"  he  replied. 

Slowly  they  got  out  their  dinner. 

As  they  did  so  Howell  Gruffydd  came  up  from  the 
beach.  Formerly,  he  had  rebuked  Eesaac  Oliver  for 
speaking  Welsh  in  the  presence  of  those  who  did  not 
understand  it ;  now,  John  Willie  Garden's  presence  was 
entirely  disregarded.  He  did  not  understand  six  words 
of  the  low,  rapid  conversation. 

Then  in  the  middle  of  it  a  light  sound  came  over  the 
sandhills,  and  the  talk  suddenly  ceased.  They  waited. 
The  sound  came  again. 

Hedgestakes  were  being  flung  from  the  cart  down  by 
the  side  of  the  road. 

The  workmen  continued  to  sit  after  dinner,  but  not  a 
ladder  was  mounted  again  that  day. 

John  Pritchard  was  big  and  sickly  and  consumptive, 
and  his  farm  kitchen  was  also  the  Llanyglo  Post  Office. 


"DIM  SAESKEG"  55 

There  John  Willie  went  at  six  o'clock  that  evening  to 
post  a  letter  for  his  mother.  Nominally,  John's  mother, 
ancient  Mrs.  Pritchard,  whom  Dafydd  Dafis  so  greatly 
loved,  was  the  postmistress,  but  actually  Miss  Nancy 
Pritchard,  the  schoolmistress,  did  most  of  the  work. 
She  was  sealing  the  letter-bag  from  a  saucer  of  melted 
wax  when  John  Willie  entered.  The  postman's  cart 
waited  at  the  door,  and  beyond  it,  past  the  gate,  could 
be  seen  the  hedgestakes  that  had  been  shot  down  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road.  The  postman  was  explaining 
something  to  John  Pritchard,  and  Dafydd  Dafis  and  his 
labourers  listened  in  silence.  In  her  chair  by  the  fire 
sat  ancient  Mrs.  Pritchard,  seeming  old  as  the  Dinas 
itself,  her  face  a  skull  with  a  membrane  stretched  over 
it,  a  black  gophered  snood  surrounding  it,  her  hands 
anatomies,  and  her  mouth  from  time  to  time  making  a 
sort  of  weak  baa-ing. 

Of  the  hushed  and  rapid  conversation  at  the  door, 
John  Willie  caught  this  time  a  phrase  or  two  he  under- 
stood. "  Wait  and  see,  whatever,"  he  heard  them  say ; 
"  let  them  drive  them  in  ...  adwydd  .  .  .  perhaps  it 
be  on  Thursday  .  .  .  Saesneg.  .  .  ."  He  approached 
the  group. 

"  Peth  a  elwir "  he  began. 

But  the  men  who  formerly  had  made  much  of  him 
now  took  no  notice  of  him  at  all. 

The  next  day  two  strangers  from  Porth  Neigr  ap- 
peared at  Llanyglo,  and  began  to  stake  out  and  to  enclose 
a  belt  of  land  that  extended,  roughly,  from  the  Porth 
Neigr  road  on  both  sides  of  John  Pritchard's  farm 
nearly  as  far  as  Edward  Garden's  house.  John  Willie 
watched  these  two  men  at  work  with  their  pawls,  meas- 
uring and  driving,  but  the  curious  thing  was  that 
nobody  else  did  so.  Save  for  the  Porth  Neigr  men,  the 


56  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

blue  and  sulphur  butterflies  and  the  rabbits,  the  sand- 
hills were  extraordinarily  deserted.  John  Willie 
wandered  here  and  there  in  search  of  somebody  to  talk 
to,  and  by  and  by.  found  himself  in  Howell  Gruffydd's 
shop.  The  grocer  showed  his  false  teeth  in  a  smile,  and 
then  continued  to  weigh  sugar. 

"  Well,  John  Willie  Garden,  can  you  say  '  Llanf  air- 

pwllgwyngyll '  yet  ?  "  he  asked,  his  eyes  gleaming 

as  brightly  as  the  bright  scoop  in  his  hand. 

"  Where's  everybody  ?  "  John  Willie  demanded. 

"  You  look  for  Eesaac  Oliver  ?  "  Howell  asked.  "  He 
go  errand  for  me,  to  the  lighthouse.  You  meet  him 
coming  back  if  you  go." 

"  Where  are  all  the  men  ? "  John  Willie  demanded 
again,  and  Howell  made  a  quick  and  mocking  gesture. 

"  Indeed,  one  hide  behind  that  cur-tain  —  quick,  look 
see !  .  .  .  Ha,  ha,  ha !  "  he  laughed  when  John  Willie 
involuntarily  turned  in  the  direction  in  which  he  had 
pointed.  "  I  cat-ss  you  that  time,  John  Willie  Garden ! 
You  think  there's  a  man  behind  that  lit-tle  cur-tain, 
hardly  so  big  as  my  apron!  Your  sister,  she  s'arper 
than  that,  whatever!  .  .  .  You  go  find  Eesaac  Oliver. 
He  fetch  eggs  from  the  lighthouse.  Perhaps  you  meet 
all  the  men  there  too " 

And  that  was  as  much  as  John  Willie  could  get  out 
of  him. 

It  was  plain  that  something  extraordinary  was 
toward.  It  was  a  habit  of  John  .Willie  Garden's  to  look 
in  at  Pritchard's  farm  of  an  evening,  and  there  to  pass 
the  news  with  John  Pritchard  and  to  watch  his  ancient 
mother,  bent  doublefold  over  her  Bible,  running  a  rush- 
light along  line  after  line  so  close  to  the  page  that  the 
book  was  scored  across  with  bars  of  smoky  brown.  He 
went  as  usual  that  evening.  But  he  had  hardly  opened 


"DIM  SAESNEG"  57 

the  door  when  it  was  closed  again  upon  him.  "  We  go 
to  bed,"  said  John  Pritchard,  and  packed  John  Willie 
off  without  his  customary  "  Nos  da." 

But  John  Willie  knew  that  they  were  not  going  to  bed. 
The  door  had  not  been  closed  so  quickly  but  that  he 
had  seen  a  dozen  men  crowding  the  kitchen,  and  Dafydd 
Dafis's  eyes,  hollower  than  ever  in  the  light  of  the  candle 
that  stood  at  his  elbow,  with  a  sentimental  and  knife- 
like  gleam  in  them  as  they  turned. 

The  next  morning,  every  stake  that  those  two  Forth 
Neigr  men  had  driven  in  had  been  uprooted  again,  and  a 
board  with  "  Rhybudd "  on  it  lay  down  the  beach, 
already  lapped  by  the  rising  tide. 

It  was  once  told  to  the  writer  of  The  Visitors'  Six- 
penny Guide  to  Llanyglo  and  Neighbourhood  —  a  young 
man  with  so  little  regard  for  his  bread  and  butter  that 
he  made  a  labour  of  love  of  a  job  that  brought  him  in 
exactly  ten  pounds  —  it  was  once  told  to  this  over- 
conscientious  author,  by  a  man  who  had  known  Squire 
Wynne  very  well,  that  the  Squire,  finding  himself  one 
day  in  Liverpool,  and  taking  a  walk  to  the  docks  with  an 
acquaintance  in  the  Royal  Engineers,  pointed  down  the 
Mersey  past  New  Brighton,  and  said,  "  Do  you  know, 
I've  sometimes  had  the  idea  that  if  this  country  was 
ever  invaded  the  enemy  would  come  up  there  ?  " — "  But 
surely,"  exclaimed  his  friend,  "  it's  a  difficult  piece  of 
navigation  ? " — "  Yes,"  the  Squire  replied,  "  but  half 
the  pilots  are  Welshmen." 

No  doubt  the  Squire  said  it  without  accepting  too 
much  responsibility  for  it.  No  doubt,  too,  he  would  not 
have  allowed  anybody  else  to  suggest  that  Wales  might 
slyly  open  a  back-door  into  England.  But  that  there 
was  something,  much  or  little,  in  it,  the  famous  Llany- 


58  MUSHROOM  TOWltf 

glo  Inclosures  Dispute,  that  now  began,  lasted  off  and 
on  for  three  years,  and  then  came  to  an  end  in  as  fantas- 
tic a  manner  as  you  could  conceive,  seemed  to  show. 

For  that  dispute  would  not  have  been  so  obstinate 
and  envenomed  had  it  been  simply  a  question  of  grazing, 
turbary,  and  right-of-way.  True,  there  might  still  have 
been  the  fence-destruction  and  gate-burning  that  pres- 
ently filled  John  Willie  Garden's  heart  with  a  fearful 
joy;  but  —  and  this  is  what  made  the  difference  — 
Owen  Glyndwr  and  his  triumph  over  Mortimer  would 
not  have  been  dragged  in,  nor  Taliesin  and  his  prophecy, 
nor  Howel  Dda,  nor  Gruffydd  ap  Rhys,  nor  Llewelyn 
ap  lorwerth,  nor  a  hundred  other  grey  and  valiant  and 
unforgotten  ghosts  of  princes  and  saints  and  bards  whose 
names  string  (as  it  were)  all  Wales,  from  Braich-y-Pwll 
to  St.  David's  Head,  making  of  it  one  Western  Harp  in 
which  the  wind  of  sentiment  is  never  still. 

For  these  fences  on  the  Llanyglo  sandhills  were  not 
fences  —  they  were  Saxon  fences.  They  were  not 
notice-boards  and  gates  —  they  were  the  insulting  tokens 
of  invasion  and  rapine  and  defeat.  The  Welshman  says 
of  himself  that  he  is  able  to  keep  only  that  which  he  has 
lost,  and,  in  Dafydd  Dafis's  view  of  it,  at  all  events,  not 
a  piratical  Liverpool  Syndicate,  but  a  marauding 
Saesneg  king  had  come  again. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  those  fences  were 
laid  flat  again,  John  Willie  went  once  more  to  Pritch- 
ard's  farm,  and  this  time  was  not  refused  admittance. 
Perhaps  nobody  either  saw  or  heard  him  enter.  As  if  it 
had  been  put  there  for  a  signal,  a  single  candle  in  a  flat 
tin  stick  stood  among  the  geraniums  in  the  little  square 
window-recess,  and,  save  for  a  dull  glow  from  the  shell 
of  peats  on  the  hearth,  that  was  the  only  light  in  the 
room.  Again  seven  or  eight  men  were  gathered  there, 


"DIM  SAESNEG"  59 

some  sitting  on  the  hard  old  horsehair  sofa,  two  on  the 
table,  and  others  crouched  or  standing  in  corners;  and 
the  candle-light  rested  here  on  a  bit  of  lustre-ware,  there 
on  a  chair  knob,  and  elsewhere  on  a  cheekbone  or  the 
knuckles  of  a  hand.  It  barely  reached  Dafydd  Dafis, 
who  sat  in  the  farthest  corner,  with  his  cap  on  his  head 
and  his  head  resting  against  a  Post  Office  proclamation 
that  hung  on  the  wall.  No  sound  could  be  heard  save 
the  loud  tock-tocking  of  the  tall  clock  with  the  in-turned 
scrolls  on  the  top  and  the  gilt  pippin  between  them. 

John  Willie  thought  it  would  be  mere  grown-up  to 
accept  their  silence  and  to  share  their  motionlessness. 
He  set  his  elbows  on  the  dresser  and  sank  his  neck 
between  his  shoulders.  The  shadow  of  great  John 
Pritchard,  who  sat  on  the  sofa's  end,  covered  John  Willie 
and  half  the  wall  behind  him  as  well,  and  John  Willie's 
eyes  only  discovered  Dafydd  Dafis  in  the  farther  corner 
when  Dafydd  moved.  As  he  moved,  a  bit  of  gilt  fluting 
dipped  forward  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  chimney-corner. 
Dafydd  had  his  harp. 

The  next  moment  a  single  thrumming  note  had  broken 
out.  It  was  followed  by  a  soft  chord  of  three  or  four 
more.  .  .  . 

"  Mae  hen  wlad  fy  Nhadau  yn  anwyl  i  mi, 
Gwlad  beirdd  a  chantorion,  enwogion  o  fri " 


It  is  the  commonest  air  you  will  hear  in  Wales  — 
Land  of  my  Fathers.  Quarrymen  sing  it  as  they  work 
by  their  trucks,  slate-splitters  whistle  it  as  they  tap  in 
their  wedges,  farmers'  lads  tss-tss  it  between  their  teeth 
as  they  clump  along  the  road,  sitting  sideways  on  their 
horses.  You  would  think  it  had  died  an  age  ago  of 
familiarity  and  repetition.  Had  it  been  God  Save  the 
King,  played  at  an  English  theatre,  there  would  have 


'60  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

been  a  single  line  of  it,  half  lost  in  the  reaching  for 
shawls  and  cloaks  and  fans,  and  here  and  there  a  man 
would  have  stood  with  an  interval  of  an  inch  between 
his  hat  and  his  head,  and  already  the  attendants  would 
have  been  getting  out  the  sheeting  for  the  stalls  —  so 
long  is  it  since  we  knew  adversity.  But  here,  it  needed 
but  a  stake  driven  into  a  foreshore  that  would  hardly 
have  pastured  a  donkey,  and  that  was  enough  —  so  much 
adversity  have  they  seen.  .  .  .  Then,  as  John  Willie 
craned  his  neck,  a  man  moved  from  in  front  of  the  candle 
among  the  geraniums,  and  Dafydd  Dafis's  hands  could 
be  seen.  They  seemed  not  so  much  hands  as  multiple 
things,  assemblies  of  members  each  one  of  which  was 
possessed  of  an  independent  life  and  will.  There  was 
not  a  finger  that  did  not  lurk,  stiffen,  clutch,  and  then 
start  back  from  the  throbbing  string  as  if  each  note  had 
been  a  poignant  deed  done,  an  old  and  secret  vow  re- 
deemed. For  the  images  that  were  evoked  were  cruel 
images.  Those  fingers  of  Dafydd's  might  have  been 
choosing,  not  among  strings  of  wire  and  gut,  but  among 
the  living  nerves  of  an  enemy  whose  moans  of  suffering 
were  transmuted  into  music.  Know,  that  this  —  not 
the  languid  wrist  nor  the  caressing  hand,  not  the  swans- 
neck  forearm  nor  the  coquetry  of  the  foot  on  the  pedal  — 
not  these,  but  the  hook,  the  claw,  the  distortion,  and 
the  wreaking  and  the  more  than  human  and  yet  some- 
how less  than  human  love  —  this  is  the  harping  of 
Wales.  , 


Dafydd's  head  against  the  Post  Office  notice  did  not 
move,  but  his  twisted  hand  might  have  wrenched  the 
sinews  from  their  shoulder-blade  of  a  frame 

"  Pleidiol    wyf    i'm    Gwlad! " 


"DIM  SAESKEG"  61 

He  did  not  sing  the  words,  but  the  words  that  sang 
themselves  in  the  ear  of  every  man  there  meant  that  he 
was  so  enwrapped  in  his  country  that  an  alien  stake  in 
her  soil  was  a  stake  in  his  heart  also.  .  .  . 

Within  a  week  of  that  harping  of  Hen  Wlad,  Terry 
Armfield  had  more  to  mind  than  he  had  ever  reckoned 
for. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  flame  was  fanned  largely 
by  the  Chapels.  These  were,  respectively,  of  the  three 
denominations  most  common  in  Wales,  namely,  Baptist, 
Calvinistic  Methodist,  and  Independent;  and  Terry 
Armfield,  coming  down  presently  to  see  for  himself 
what  all  the  trouble  was  about,  gave  one  affrighted  look 
at  their  architecture,  gasped,  "  Shade  of  Pugin !  "  and 
fled.  The  Baptist  Chapel  was  a  plain  slate-roofed 
Noah's  Ark  of  stone  that,  with  the  day-school  adjoining 
it,  stood  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  sandhills.  At  one 
end  of  its  roof -ridge  was  a  small  structure  in  which  a  bell 
swung,  and  the  building  had  this  further  peculiarity, 
that,  good  stone  being  cheaper  at  Llanyglo  than  com- 
mon bricks,  the  latter  material  had  been  used  wherever 
an  embellishment  had  been  desired.  The  Independent 
Chapel  was  also  of  stone,  with  zinc  ventilators  like  those 
of  a  weaving-shed ;  these  looked  over  the  fishermen's  cot- 
tages out  to  sea  not  far  from  Edward  Garden's  house. 
And  the  third  Chapel,  that  of  the  Methodists,  of  which 
body  Howell  Gruffydd  was  the  principal  pillar,  lay  be- 
hind the  farms.  It  was  of  corrugated  iron  and  wood, 
painted  inside  with  a  skirting  of  chocolate  brown  and 
upper  walls  of  a  peculiarly  sickly  light  blue.  On  the 
walls  were  stencilled  ribbons  with  V-shaped  ends,  and 
these  bore  texts  in  Welsh.  Architecturally  all  these 
were  hideous,  but,  to  those  whose  grandfathers  had  wor- 
shipped in  the  fields  and  in  clefts  of  the  barren  moun- 


62 

tains  and  on  the  wide  seashore,  they  had  the  beauty  of 
a  thing  that  has  been  ardently  desired,  and  long  suffered 
for,  and  passionately  loved. 

For  from  these  three  Chapels  came  not  only  the 
impulse  of  the  spiritual  life  of  Llanyglo,  but  its  local 
politics  of  dissent  also.  Education,  the  Poor  Law,  mat- 
ters of  Local  Government,  Temperance,  Tenure,  the 
Eisteddfod,  and  the  nursing  of  Nationalism  —  if  these 
things  were  not  actually  Llanyglo's  religion,  they  were 
hardly  divisible  from  it.  And  this  welding  of  Faith 
with  secular  works  was  helped  by  two  other  circum- 
stances. The  first  circumstance  was  that  no  language 
was  heard  in  the  chapels  but  Welsh ;  and  the  second  was 
that,  as  a  result  of  the  local-preacher  system,  three  times 
out  of  four  the  Welsh  issued  from  the  same  mouths  — 
from  Howell  Gruffydd's  mouth  at  the  Methodist  Chapel, 
from  big  John  Pritchard  at  the  Baptists',  and  from 
Owen  Morgan's  among  the  Independents.  None  of 
these  went  quite  so  far  as  openly  to  incite  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  fences. 

They  merely  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  the  situa- 
tion in  which  they  found  themselves, 

Whereupon,  like  Drake's  men,  heartened  by  prayer, 
they  rose  from  their  knees  again  to  take  another  pull  on 
the  rope. 

So  three  times  in  six  weeks  those  fences  were  set  up 
and  laid  flat  again ;  and  then  it  was  that  Terry  Armfield 
came  down,  saw  the  Chapels  (as  above  mentioned), 
gasped  "  Shade  of  Piigin !  "  and  straightway  sought 
Squire  Wynne. 

But  before  ever  he  set  eyes  on  the  Squire  he  had 
already  almost  forgotten  the  errand  that  had  brought 
him.  As  the  servant  showed  him  to  the  dining-room 
he  saw  that  noble  ruin  of  a  staircase,  and  his  eyes  be- 


"DIM  SAESKEG"  63 

came  illumined.  Then,  in  the  dining-room,  those  same 
eyes  rested  on  the  coffered  ceiling  and  the  portraits  and 
the  wide  nmllioned  lattice.  By  the  time  the  Squire 
entered  he  was  adoring  the  stately  stone  fireplace.  He 
swung  round,  hearing  the  Squire's  step. 

"  Magnificent,  magnificent !  "  hie  cried.  "  Show  me 
over  the  house  —  I  beg  you  to  show  me  over  the 
house ! " 

The  Squire,  who  had  had  this  kind  of  visitor  before 
(though  none  with  quite  that  perilous  smoulder  in  his 
eye  that  Terry  had)  naturally  concluded  that  a  fellow- 
antiquary,  finding  himself  in  the  neighbourhood,  had 
permitted  himself  to  beg  for  a  sight  of  the  faded  glories 
of  the  Plas. 

"  I'll  show  you  over  part  of  the  house  with  pleasure," 
said  the  Squire ;  and  he  did  so. 

"  Magnificent !  "  Terry  cried  again,  when  they  were 
once  more  back  in  the  dining-room.  "  And  oh,  that 
rood-screen  —  early  sixteenth  —  and  those  sedilia  —  in 
your  Church  over  there!  I  spent  an  hour  there  as  I 
came  along." 

"  Oh,  you  came  Forth  Neigr  way,  did  you  ?  "  said  the 
Squire. 

As  if  he  had  previously  written  the  Squire  a  letter 
setting  forth  his  business  in  detail,  which  therefore  he 
need  not  repeat,  Terry  leaped  light-heartedly  ahead. 

"  Yes,  sir  —  and  then,  after  that,  to  come  upon  those 
incredible  Chapels!  (That's  a  misnomer,  by  the  way, 
unless  they  contain  relics.)  ...  Of  course,  after  that 
I'm  not  surprised  at  anything  these  people  do  —  fences 
or  anything  else " 

The  Squire  was  reaching  port  from  the  sideboard. — 
"  Eh  ?  "  he  said,  not  quite  understanding. 

"  Those  places  an  expression  of  religious  emotion !  " 


64 

Terry  cried,  throwing  up  his  hands.  "  Of  course, 
what's  happened  was  a  perfectly  natural  result !  Com- 
mit such  an  outrage  on  the  aesthetic  sense  as  that  and  — 
and  no  fence  is  safe !  If  I'd  seen  those  Chapels  first  I'd 
as  soon  have  bought  a  volcano  as  that  land !  They  ought 
to  have  been  mentioned  by  the  vendors  —  flagrant  sup- 
pressio  veri  —  deliberate  concealment  of  a  material  fact 
—  an  action  ought  to  lie  —  by  Jove,  I've  a  good  mind  to 
take  advice  about  it ! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ? "  said  the  puzzled  Squire. 

A  very  few  questions  served  to  enlighten  him.  His 
mouth  twitched  as  he  filled  his  harebrained  visitor's 
glass. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  quite  follow  your  processes, 
but  your  result  seems  all  right.  If  you  mean  there's 
some  connection  between  the  Chapels  and  your  fences 
being  pulled  down,  I  dare  say  you're  not  very  far  wrong. 
The  places  of  worship  do  settle  a  good  many  things  indi- 
rectly here.  But  our  own  Establishment's  been  called  a 
branch  of  the  Civil  Service,  so  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
complain  if  some  of  their  activities  are  a  little  secular 
too." 

"'A  little  secular!"'  echoed  Terry.  "Pulling 
down  fences  l  a  little  secular ! ?  .  .  .  Now  I'm  anxious 
not  to  go  to  extreme  lengths  • " 

"  Eh  ? "  said  the  Squire  rather  quickly.  He  gave 
Terry  a  longish  look.  ..."  Do  you  know  Wales  ? "  he 
asked  politely. 

"  I  do  not.  But  I've  not  heard  that  it's  outside  the 
Law.  I  was  going  to  say,  that  I  don't  want  to  issue 
summonses  if  it  can  be  avoided " 

Thereupon  the  Squire,  who  was  inclined  to  like  this 
half-mystical  zany  of  a  guest,  gave  him  the  same  advice 
he  had  given  to  Edward  Garden. 


"DIM  SAESKEG"  65 

"  Oh,  avoid  it  if  you  possibly  can !  "  he  said  good- 
humouredly.  "  There's  nothing  these  people  won't  do 
for  you  if  you  go  the  right  way  about  it,  but 
it  must  be  the  right  way.  A  new  neighbour  of  yours 
seems  to  be  getting  along  with  them  quite  success- 
fully, a  man  called  Garden.  Quite  an  opportunist,  I 
should  say  —  takes  things  just  as  he  finds  them, — 
settles  every  question  strictly  on  its  merits  and  has  a 
good  deal  of  audacity  up  his  sleeve  for  use  at  the  right 
moment,  I  don't  doubt.  Can't  you  take  a  leaf  out  of 
his  book?" 

"  Do  they  pull  down  his  fences  ?  "  Terry  demanded 
over  his  shoulder;  he  had  been  looking  at  that  mar- 
vellous fireplace  again. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they're  build- 
ing his  house  for  him. —  By  the  way  —  Sheard's  told 
me  very  little  about  it  —  have  you  bought  your  land  to 
build  on?" 

Terry,  remembering  his  Syndicate,  had  a  momentary 
check. — "  I  don't  know  yet,"  he  confessed. 

"  Because  if  you  have,"  the  Squire  continued,  "  and 
find  them  employment  —  spend  money  in  the  place  — 
and  use  a  certain  amount  of  tact  —  you  might  hit  it  off 
with  them.  But  do  try  to  overlook  their  Chapels.  A 
soul's  sometimes  saved  under  a  tin  roof,  you  know." 

Terry  looked  as  if  he  would  far  rather  have  his  soul 
damned  under  a  Gothic  nave. — "  That's  simply  buying 
'em  off,"  he  said.  He  would  have  preferred  to  burn 
them,  each  at  one  of  the  stakes  they  had  uprooted. 

"  Well.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  it's  all  the  advice  I  can  give 
you. —  And  now  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  excuse  me. 
I'll  show  you  a  rather  fine  carved  kingpost  before  you 
go  if  you  like " 

And  Terry  presently  departed  for  Forth  Neigr  again, 


66  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

where  he  took  the  taste  of  the  Chapels  out  of  his  mouth 
in  a  further  ecstatic  contemplation  of  the  early  sixteenth- 
century  rood-screen. 

The  fences  were  set  up  again. 

John  Willie  Garden  could  never  be  sufficiently  grate- 
ful to  his  stars  that  what  happened  next  came  before  he 
departed  for  school  again.  He  had  gone  to  bed  that  night, 
but  was  lying  awake,  thinking  of  the  suspended  building. 
He  knew  that  the  resumption  of  that  building  was  not 
irremediably  involved  in  the  fencing  dispute;  Edward 
Garden  had  established  a  serviceable  goodwill  in  Llany- 
glo;  and  that  very  night,  standing  by  Pritchard's 
manure-heap,  Dafydd  Dafis  had  all  but  told  John  Willie 
that  when  Llanyglo  had  settled  with  the  intruder  it 
would  have  time  to  spare  for  the  child  of  its  adoption 
again.  He  had  told  him  this,  and  had  then  ruffled  up 
John  Willie's  fair  hair  with  his  hand  and  had  added 
that  it  was  ten  o'clock  and  time  he  was  in  bed. 

His  little  window,  as  well  as  that  of  the  next  room, 
where  his  mother  slept,  overlooked  the  sandhills,  and 
John  Willie,  lying  awake,  did  not  at  first  notice  the 
change  in  its  colour.  Neither  did  his  ears  hear  at  first 
a  low  muffled  cracking  that  had  been  going  on  for  some 
time.  But  suddenly  he  sat  up.  The  muslin  curtains 
and  the  claywashed  embrasure  of  the  window  had  a 
rusty  glow,  which  reached  the  counterpane  of  the  bed 
in  which  John  Willie  lay. 

The  moment  he  saw  this  John  Willie  was  out  of  bed. 
Then,  within  thirty  seconds,  he  had  plunged  into  his 
jersey,  tucked  his  nightgown  hastily  into  his  knickers, 
and,  making  as  little  noise  as  possible,  had  tiptoed 
down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  cottage. 

The  bright  glow  over  the  sandhills  guided  him,  and 
he  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  through  the  muffling  sand. 


"DIM  SAESNEG"  67 

The  continuous  cracks  were  like  pistols,  and  a  deep 
roaring  could  be  heard,  which  became  louder.  Then, 
mounting  a  hillock,  John  Willie  saw  the  beautiful 
blaze.  It  was  as  high  as  a  cottage,  and  the  twisting, 
upstreaming  column  of  sparks  above  it  rose  fifty  feet 
into  the  night.  It  illumined  the  sandhills  far  and 
wide.  The  Baptist  Chapel  and  schoolhouse  looked  as 
if  they  were  cut  out  of  red  cardboard  against  the  night. 
Even  the  zinc  ventilators  of  the  Independent  Chapel, 
down  by  the  sea,  showed  faintly.  Then  all  became 
grey  again  as  a  dozen  fresh  stakes  were  piled  on.  By 
the  time  John  Willie  Garden  got  there  these  too  had 
caught,  with  volleys  of  cracks.  Every  man  in  Llanyglo 
was  there,  and,  farther  off,  groups  of  women  also.  The 
heat  was  intense,  so  that  the  men  and  lads  who  ran  in 
to  throw  back  half -consumed  ends  did  so  with  their  faces 
averted. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  said  John  Willie  to 
Dafydd  Dafis  reproachfully. 

Dafydd  was  watching  this  beautiful  Red  Dragon  of 
a  flame  that  was  burning  Saxon  stakes.  His  eyes 
blinked  rapidly.  Then  he  leant  over  John  Willie,  and 
his  forefinger  tapped  two  or  three  times  on  the  boy's 
heart. 

"  You  wass  tell  me  you  go  to  bed,"  he  whispered. 
"  You  wass  tell  me  that,  at  ten  o'clock,  at  John  Pritch- 

ard's.  There  iss  two  men  over  there "  suddenly 

he  straightened  himself  again  and  pointed,  " —  you  can 
tell  them  the  same  whatever." 

A  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away  two  men  watched. 
They  were  the  men  from  Forth  Neigr  who  had  set  up 
the  fences.  They  put  up  at  a  wayside  cottage  two  miles 
away,  and  probably  they  were  not  surprised  at  what 
was  happening.  They  did  not  approach  any  nearer. 


68  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

Then  there  was  a  call  of  "  John  Willie ! "  and  Mrs. 
Garden's  terrified  face  could  be  seen  in  the  outer  ring 
of  light.  John  Willie  was  haled  off,  in  a  rage  that  was 
nearer  to  tears  than  he  would  have  admitted. 

Four  days  later  summonses  were  served  on  Dafydd 
Dafis  and  two  other  men. 

The  serving  of  those  summonses  had  an  instant  and 
very  remarkable  effect.  This  effect  was,  that  three  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Llanyglo  straightway  lost  all  recol- 
lection of  the  English  language.  And  not  only  did 
they,  the  summoned  ones,  lose  it,  but  every  witness  called 
from  Llanyglo  fell  into  an  ignorance  as  blank.  This 
happened  at  Sessions,  before  Squire  Wynne  himself, 
who,  in  the  days  before  this  visitation  of  forgetfulness, 
had  talked  English  to  all  of  them.  The  gloomy  magis- 
trates' Court  opposite  Forth  !Neigr  railway  station  was 
crowded.  Terry  Annfield,  at  whose  instance  the  sum- 
monses had  been  issued,  thought  he  had  never  seen  such 
a  set  of  pigjobbers  as  stood  against  the  perspiring  walls 
or  sat  with  their  chins  on  their  outspread  forearms,  their 
caps  in  their  hands  or  in  the  pockets  of  their  corduroys. 
The  two  men  who  had  put  up  the  fences  sat  in  the  well 
of  the  Court.  They  were  brothers,  and  their  name  was 
Kerr.  The  skylight  shone  on  the  baldish  head  of  the 
elder  of  them,  and  both  had  given  their  evidence  in  a 
strong  Lancashire  accent.  They  had  been  watching  on 
the  sandhills,  they  said,  expecting  something  of  the  sort, 
and  knew  that  it  had  taken  place  at  exactly  ten  o'clock, 
because  they  had  both  looked  at  their  watches.  .  .  . 

So  "  Dim  Saesneg,"  said  man  after  man ;  and  the 
Squire  could  only  make  dots  with  his  pen  on  the  blotting- 
paper  before  him,  keep  his  eyes  from  Terry  Annfield, 
and  call  for  an  interpreter. 

Now  interpretation  takes  time,  during  which  time  the 


"DIM  SAESNEG*"  '69 

person  with  most  to  gain  can  be  thinking  of  the  tale  he 
will  tell  next.  So  the  prosecuting  solicitor  stood  up 
before  Dafydd  Dans,  and  this  kind  of  thing  began : 

"  Were  you  on  this  land  at  ten  o'clock  that  night  ?  " 

(ef  Oeddych  chi  ar  y  tir  yma  am  ddeg  o'r  gloch  y  noson 
"hono,  Dafydd  Dafis?"  This  from  the  interpreter.) 

A  rapid  denial  from  Dafydd,  not  a  hair  of  his  shaggy 
moustache  moving. 

"  Ask  him  where  he  was." 

"Lie  r'oeddycTi  chi,  Dafydd  Dafis?  " 

The  harpist,  his  fingers  twisting  his  cap,  answered 
that  he  had  been  at  Pritchard's  farm,  and  this  also  was 
translated. 

"  Have  you  any  witnesses  ?  " 

(ef-  Oes  genych  chi  dystion,  Dafydd  Dafis?  ") 

"  Eh  ? " 

"  Oes  genych  chidysiion?" 

"  R'oeddwn  efo  John  Willie  Garden." 

("He  says  he  can  call  the  son  of  the  man  who  is 
building  a  house  there,  sir.")  .  .  . 

And  so  it  went  on,  hour  after  hour,  with  the  English 
evidence  likewise  translated  for  the  benefit  of  the  de- 
fendants. At  the  end  of  the  first  day  the  case  was 
adjourned,  but  it  came  on  again  on  the  morrow,  and 
again  on  the  day  after  that.  It  began  to  dam  all  other 
business.  As  a  block  in  traffic  causes  an  accumula- 
tion behind,  so  other  cases  began  to  collect  —  drunks, 
dog-licences,  drivings  without  lights,  and  innumerable 
other  petty  disputes.  There  was  no  question  that  the 
fences  had  been  burned ;  the  only  question  was  whether 
they  had  got  hold  of  the  right  men.  The  Bench  could 
not  understand  the  obstinacy  with  which  the  two  Lan- 
cashire witnesses  persisted  that  the  outrage  had  oc- 
curred at  exactly  ten  o'clock. 


70  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

"  But  mightn't  it  have  been  half-past  ten,  or  eleven,  or 
even  half -past  eleven  ? "  they  were  asked  again  and 
again. 

"  Ah,  it  might,"  they  admitted  open-mindedly. 
"  But  it  wasn't,"  they  added  unshakably. 

Dafydd  Dafis  wanted  to  know  what  they  said. 

"  Oh,  translate  it,"  the  Squire  sighed,  and  for  the 
fortieth  time  it  was  translated. 

"  R'oeddwn  efo  John  Willie  Garden/'  said  Dafydd 
once  more.  .  .  . 

And  that  was  great  glory  for  John  Willie,  for  he 
was  called,  asked  whether  he  knew  the  nature  of  an  oath, 
was  sworn,  and  raised  a  general  laugh  by  varying  the 
formula  with  which  the  Court  was  not  so  drearily 
familiar,  and  saying,  in  Welsh,  "  Dim  Cymraeg"  He 
stood  to  it  that  at  ten  o'clock  Dafydd  Dafis  had  been 
talking  to  him  by  Pritchard's  manure-heap. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake  settle  it  or  do  something !  "  the 
Squire  said  impatiently  to  Terry  Armfield,  as  he  crossed 
the  road  to  the  Station  Hotel  for  lunch.  "  You  can't 
say  I  didn't  warn  you." 

"  I  doubt  whether  my  own  witnesses  would  let  me 
now,"  Terry  replied.  "  They're  as  cranky  in  their  way 
as  your  own  Fenians.  Besides,  as  I  told  you,  I'm  acting 
for  others." 

"  Well,  if  I  bind  'em  over  they'll  only  do  it  again," 
sighed  the  Squire. 

Terry  himself  began  to  weary.  After  all,  he  had 
other  things  to  mind  than  a  piece  of  beggarly  waste  land 
dotted  with  Chapels  that  were  a  blasphemy  of  the  name 
of  beauty. 

As  the  Squire  ate  his  chop  in  the  coffee-room,  the 
two  witnesses  from  Lancashire  sat  each  on  a  tall  stool 
in  the  sawdusted  tap  round  the  corner.  Thick  imperial 


"DIM  SAEStfEG"  71 

pint  glasses  of  mild  ale  stood  on  the  counter  before  them. 
The  elder  and  baldish  one  was  a  man  of  three  or  four  and 
forty,  a  hard,  handy  little  man,  with  a  curious  dip  and 
slope  about  his  right  shoulder.  This  slight  lopsided- 
ness  he  had  acquired  during  the  years  in  which  he  had 
wandered  North  Wales  buying  and  felling  alders  for 
clog-soles.  Any  time  this  last  twenty  years  you  might 
have  come  across  him  in  his  little  canvas  hut  in  the 
middle  of  a  wood,  with  a  pile  of  split  alder-billets  on 
one  side  of  him  which,  plying  his  hinged  knife  on  its 
solid  base  with  marvellous  dexterity,  he  shaped  roughly 
into  the  clog-soles  which  he  cast  on  a  pile  on  his  other  side, 
while  his  brother  felled.  He  would  buy  all  the  alders 
in  a  wood,  at  so  much  a  foot  over  all ;  the  rough-dressed 
soles  went  off  to  Manchester ;  and  no  doubt  a  good  many 
of  them  found  their  way  into  Edward  Garden's  spin- 
ning-sheds. In  the  course  of  his  travels  he  had  picked 
up  from  the  gentry  and  their  stewards  volumes  of  gos- 
sip of  families  and  their  vicissitudes,  of  wills,  bounda- 
ries, timber-news,  and  customs  and  tenures  rapidly  be- 
coming obsolete ;  and  his  coat,  a  brown  check  with  wide 
pockets,  had  probably  been  made  a  dozen  years  before 
in  Conduit  Street.  He  wore  a  tie,  but  no  collar.  As 
the  Court  had  assumed  on  its  own  responsibility  that  he 
spoke  no  Welsh,  he  had  not  considered  it  his  business  to 
correct  the  mistake,  but  had  allowed  them  to  translate 
for  him  also  —  perhaps  for  reasons  not  fundamentally 
different  from  those  of  Dafydd  Dafis  himself.  He  had 
half  a  week's  stubble  on  his  chin  and  thin  upper  lip ;  he 
spat  with  great  accuracy;  and  he  turned  to  humour 
things  not  generally  accounted  humorous,  such  as  scaf- 
fold accidents,  fights,  and  deaths  from  dropsy. 

His  brother,  save  that  he  wore  a  collar  and  no  tie, 
was  a  younger  edition  of  him. 


72  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

They  drank  from  the  thick  glasses  in  silence,  and  then 
the  elder  of  them  drew  out  a  short  clay  pipe  with  a 
dottle  in  the  bottom  of  the  bowl,  struck  a  match  on  the 
side  of  it,  and  lighted  up.  The  dottle  made  a  noise  like 
frying.  His  brother  also  drew  out  his  pipe,  a  clay 
shaped  like  a  cowboy's  head.  He  gave  an  indescribably 
short  jerk  of  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  other's 
waistcoat  pocket,  then,  when  the  stub  of  cake  was 
thrown  over  to  him,  cut  it  with  a  knife  with  a  curved 
blade.  He  stuffed  these  brains  of  black  tobacco  into  the 
cowboy's  head,  and  made  another  minute  gesture.  This 
was  a  request  for  a  match.  Then,  bringing  out  six- 
pence from  his  pocket,  he  knocked  once  with  the  heavy 
glass  on  the  counter. 

"  Two  more  cups  o'  tea,"  he  said  to  the  young  woman 
who  approached. 

They  smoked  again  in  silence. 

It  was  the  elder  brother  who  spoke  first. 

"  I'm  capped  about  them  watches,  an'  right !  "  he 
mused. 

The  other  took  a  pull  at  his  beer,  and  replaced  the 
cowboy  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

"  I  cannot  think  th'  bairn  wor  telling  'em  lies,"  the 
elder  one  mused  again. 

"  Gi'e  me  another  match,"  said  his  brother. 

The  alder-buyer's  wrinkled  eyes  were  peering  side- 
ways at  an  auction  announcement  pinned  to  the  wall. 
He  shifted  his  feet  in  the  legs  of  the  tall  stool.  By  and 
by  he  spoke  again. 

"  Let's  see.  Let's  study  it  out.  .  .  .  We  com'  home 
at  tea-time  that  day,  didn't  we  ?  " 

"Ay." 

"  Then  we  went  out  into  th'  yard  and  washed 
we'rsens  at  th'  bucket." 


"DIM  SAESNEG"  73 

"Ay." 

A  pause,  and  then,  the  speaker's  eyes  on  his  hearer's 
face  like  two  prickers : 

"  Did  yet  tak'  your  waistcoat  off  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  ye." 

"  I  did  mine.  I  threw  it  down  on  a  chair  i'  t' 
kitchen." 

This  time  the  younger  brother  shifted  his  feet. 

"  Happen  I  did  mine  an'  all." 

"  Wor  your  watch  i'  your  pocket  ?  " 

"  Ay,  it  wad  be." 

"  So  wor  mine." 

They  drank  thoughtfully  and  simultaneously,  and 
again  the  silence  fell. 

Then,  more  slowly  still,  the  elder  Kerr  resumed. 

"  D'ye  remember  a  chap  coming  in,  a  thin  chap,  'at 
spoke  Welsh  to  t'  Missis  ?  " 

"Ay." 

"  He  com'  to  fetch  a  pair  o'  boots  to  mend." 

"Ay." 

"  Think  ye "  again  the  look  as  of  prickers, 

" —  think  ye  there  wor  owt  ?  " 

"  How,  owt  ?  " 

"  'At  he  wanted  to  know  what  time  it  wor,  or  owt  ?  " 

"  There  wor  t'  clock." 

"Ay " 

There  were  minutes  of  silence  this  time.  Evidently 
the  younger  brother  occupied  them  by  taking,  in 
thought,  a  considerable  journey.  He  spoke  as  if  in 
objection  to  some  far-fetched  surmise. 

"  But  they'd  ha'  to  be  set  forrard  again,"  he  grunted. 

"  Ay,  I'm  bothered  wi'  that,"  the  elder  admitted, 
" —  wi'out  t'  Missis  herself " 

"Aw!  .  .  .  Think  ye?  .  .  ." 


74  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

They  knocked  for  two  more  cups  of  tea. 

"  And  we've  been  swearing  to  ten  o'clock." 

"  So  ye  think  there  wor  summat  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  think  t'  lad  wor  telling  'em  lies,"  said  the 
alder-buyer. 

This  time  they  both  peered  reflectively  at  the  auction 
announcement  on  the  wall,  smoking  and  spitting  as  they 
peered. 


THE    HAFOD   THNOS 


,"  said  Terry's  Syndicate,  or  such  Of  its 
members  as  lounged  in  Terry's  office,  looking 
down  on  the  Lime  Street  and  St.  George's  Hall  pave- 
ments as  if  they  had  been  so  many  fishermen  selecting  a 
likely  spot  for  the  casting  of  a  fly,  "  what  about  going 
back  to  the  old  idea  —  coal  ?  " 

"Hm!  -  "  (a  very  dubious  "  Hm  !").—"  Far 
better  have  another  shot  at  manganese  —  especially 
after  what's  happened  -  " 

What  had  happened  had  started  remotely  enough 
from  Llanyglo.  It  had  started,  to  be  exact,  in  the 
Balkans.  Much  manganese  comes  from  the  Balkans; 
a  war  there  had  suddenly  made  the  supply  a  mere 
trickle,  so  that  prices  had  whooped  up  ;  and  —  wonder 
of  wonders  —  those  old  workings  of  Squire  Wynne's, 
farther  along  the  coast,  actually  looked  like  paying. 
Terry's  Company,  unhappily,  had  just  transferred  its 
rights,  and  was  rather  sore  about  it. 

"  Wouldn't  that  be  a  little  too  —  timely  ?  "  a  timid 
member  suggested. 

"  Not  if  you  —  er  —  put  it  properly.  It's  only 
thirty  miles  away  -  "  The  speaker  paused  from 
delicacy.  "  From  the  real  manganese  "  was  under- 
stood. 

"  Might  send  a  geologist  down  —  one  we  could 
trust  -  " 

75 


76  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

A  very  young  member  of  the  Syndicate  hazarded  a 
remark. — "  But  wouldn't  burnt  mine-works  come  dearer 
than  burnt  fences  ?  " 

They  smiled  indulgently  at  him.  He  was  merely 
suffering  from  a  slight  confusion  of  ideas.  Nobody  had 
said  anything  about  mine-works.  Then  they  turned  to 
Terry. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Armfield  ? "  .  .  . 

It  was  now  winter,  and  the  dispute  was  still  drag- 
ging on.  There  had  been  no  further  fence-burning,  but 
the  Member  for  the  constituency  had  been  memorial- 
ised, a  joint  meeting  had  been  held  in  the  Llanyglo 
schoolroom,  and  he  had  promised  to  come  down  and  see 
for  himself  how  matters  stood.  Until  he  should  do  so 
the  disputants  glared,  so  to  speak,  at  one  another.  A 
certain  element  of  contempt,  that  looked  at  first  like 
tolerance,  had  even  entered  into  the  quarrel.  Thus,  a 
section  of  fence  on  a  portion  of  the  sandhills  that  it 
would  have  been  a  positive  inconvenience  to  visit  was 
allowed  to  stand.  Llanyglo  preferred  to  reserve  its 
strength.  But  elsewhere  the  stakes  lay  half  buried  in 
the  sand,  and  John  Willie  Garden  now  and  then  won- 
dered what  sort  of  a  raft  they  would  make. 

"  The  whole  thing  looks  like  being  a  damned  bad 
spec,"  the  Syndicate  grumbled. 

That  opinion  seemed  to  be  gaining  strength. 

There  seemed  to  be  more  than  a  chance  that  Llany- 
glo, its  heathery  Trwyn  and  its  purple  mountains,  its 
unproductive  sandhills  and  its  non  dividend-paying  sea, 
would  be  written  off  by  Terry's  Syndicate  as  a  total  loss. 

Then,  all  in  a  night,  something  astonishing  happened 
at  Llanyglo. 

The  words  "  all  in  a  night "  are  to  be  understood  in 
their  very  plainest  sense.  Granted  that  it  was  a 


THE  HAFOD  UNOS  7T 

winter's  night,  and  therefore  a  long  one,  with  the  dark- 
ness setting  in  soon  after  four  and  the  sun  not  coming 
up  behind  the  mountains  again  until  nearly  eight ;  none 
the  less  the  fact  remained  that  Llanyglo  went  to  bed  as 
usual,  and  woke  up  to  rub  its  eyes,  unable  to  believe 
what  it  so  plainly  saw.  What  had  happened  was  this : 
With  Edward  Garden's  house-roof  still  a  toast-rack 
against  the  wintry  sky,  and  his  slates  just  as  they  had 
been  left  after  Eesaac  Oliver's  last  long-division  sum, 
and  only  half  the  staircase  yet  fitted,  and  the  little 
socket  John  Willie  had  scooped  out  under  the  date- 
stone  still  awaiting  its  sixpence  —  with  all  this  arrested 
as  life  and  growth  and  motion  were  arrested  in  the  En- 
chanted Palace,  the  first  new  house  had  gone  up  in 
Llanyglo.  Where  had  been  nothing  the  night  before, 
there  it  now  was,  staring  at  them  when  the  sun  rose,  a 
house,  with  smoke  coming  out  of  its  chimney. 

That  same  friend  of  Squire  Wynne's  who  repeated 
to  the  author  of  the  Sixpenny  Guide  the  Squire's  re- 
mark about  invasion  via  the  Mersey,  told  him  also  what 
a  Welsh  "  Hafod  Unos  "  is. 

"  You  know  what  the  words  mean,"  he  said. 
"  Strictly  speaking,  it's  the  summer-house  —  pavilion 
—  shelter  —  of  a  night.  The  essentials  are  that  it 
must  be  built  on  common  land,  and  in  a  single  night. 
Then  they  can't  eject  you.  At  least  that's  the  idea. 
Don't  ask  me  how  it  stands  in  Law.  It  may  be  a  kind 
of  squatter's  right,  or  anything  else,  or  it  may  have  no 
standing  at  all.  Probably  it  hasn't.  But  that's  neither 
here  nor  there.  They  have  their  notions  about  it,  and 
those  at  any  rate  are  immemorial.  Look  here:  you're 
pottering  about  this  country  just  now;  just  count  how 
many  houses  you  find  with  the  name  '  Hafod  Unos.' 


78  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

You'll  find  quite  a  lot.  There's  a  very  big  one  Ban-gor 
way,  that  probably  took  some  years  to  build,  but  prob- 
ably one  of  these  places  was  its  foundation.  .  .  .  And  a 
house  *  within  the  meaning  of  the  Act,'  so  to  speak, 
means  that  smoke  must  have  gone  up  the  chimney. 
Cook  your  breakfast  there,  and  —  well,  after  that  you're 
a  sort  of  tolerated  freeholder.  It  might  be  worth  put- 
ting into  your  Guide  Book.  You'd  better  add  a  foot- 
note, though,  that  the  '  f '  in  '  hafod '  is  a  '  v/  and 
1  unos '  is  pronounced  '  innos.'  .  .  .  Not  at  all ;  you're 
welcome  to  any  help  I  can  give  you " 

Llanyglo,  snugly  in  bed,  had  heard  the  sounds  across 
the  sandhills  during  the  night,  but  they  had  been  set 
down  to  the  newest  development  of  the  fencing  dispute. 
This  development  was  that,  a  week  or  so  before,  several 
cartloads  of  undressed  stone  had  been  shot  down  by  the 
side  of  the  sandy  gully  that  ran  from  Pritchard's  gap 
down  to  the  shore.  And  Llanyglo  had  smiled.  Aha ! 
They  were  going  to  build  a  walled  enclosure,  were  they  ? 
Something  that  wouldn't  burn,  whatever?  Well,  well, 
if  it  amused  them  to  build  walls  on  winter  nights  when 
everybody  else  was  warm  in  bed,  they  might.  They 
would  only  lose  their  labour  in  the  end.  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams,  of  Ponteglwys,  was  going  to  ask  a  question 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  yes,  and  he  was  coming  down 
to  speak  at  the  Chapel  and  to  see  for  himself.  It  was 
a  cold  night  for  building  walls,  whatever 

So  they  stayed  in  bed,  and  only  the  revolving  Trwyn 
light,  two  reds  and  a  white,  saw  the  planting  of  the 
thorn  in  Llanyglo's  side. 

The  two  Kerrs  did  not  do  it  alone.  It  took  four  of 
them  — "  a  Kerr  to  each  corner,"  as  Howell  Gruffydd 
afterwards  said.  The  two  other  brothers  had  been 


THE  HAFOD  UNOS  79 

sent  for  from  Katchet,  where  one  of  them  worked  in  an 
asbestos  factory  and  the  other  was  a  builder's  labourer ; 
and  if  these  imported  ones  lacked  that  spur  of  convic- 
tion that  their  watches  had  been  tampered  with  by 
tricky  Welshmen,  they  had  another  and  a  double  incen- 
tive —  the  sense  of  family  unity,  and  of  the  honour  of 
the  gradeliest  county  on  earth,  Lancashire.  No  Kerr, 
no  lad  from  Lancashire  whomsoever,  could  thole  to  be 
bested  by  a  Welshman.  Lancashire  was  the  place  for 
which  Johnnie  Briggs  played  cricket,  the  place  where 
the  Waterloo  Cup  Meeting  was  held.  They  danced  in 
clogs  there,  clogs  with  soles  of  Welsh  alder,  and  laaked 
at  quoits  and  knurr  and  spell,  and  knew  a  bit  about  hom- 
ing pigeons,  not  to  speak  of  cocks,  the  game  kind.  They 
were  lads,  and  right,  in  Lancashire. —  Wales?  Wales 
produced  nothing  but  alders  and  oats  and  goats  and 
Chapels. 

The  idea  had  been  that  of  Ned,  the  eldest  brother,  and 
it  was  part  of  the  miscellaneous  general  information  he 
had  picked  up  on  his  alder-prospecting  through  Merion- 
ethshire and  Montgomery  and  Carnarvon  and  Denbigh 
and  Flint.  He  had  seen  a  way  of  convicting  Llanyglo 
out  of  its  own  mouth.  They  threw  down  fences  on 
the  grounds  that  the  land  was  common  land ;  very  well, 
if  it  was  common,  as  they  claimed,  it  was  a  proper  site 
for  a  Hafod  Unos.  Sauce  for  the  goose,  sauce  for  the 
gander;  and  merely  as  a  poke  in  the  eye  for  watch- 
tinkering  Welshmen,  and  a  vindication  of  Lancashire's 
superior  wit  and  malice,  it  would  be  worth  a  night's 
work  to  see  their  faces  in  the  morning. 

So  to  work  in  the  dark  the  four  brothers  got. 

They  helped  themselves  to  a  modest  slice  of  Llanyglo 
earth,  plotted  it  out  with  stakes  and  string,  and  then 
began  to  dig.  The  night  was  moonless,  and  they  worked 


80 

by  the  light  of  four  lanterns.  These  illumined  little 
enough  of  the  waste;  the  moving,  straddling  shadows 
they  cast  hardly  began  before  they  were  lost  in  the 
darkness  again.  Knitting-needles  of  light  came  and 
went  again  on  the  polished  handles  of  the  rising  and 
falling  spades,  and  faintly,  regularly,  and  as  if  a  spirit 
passed  high  overhead  in  the  night,  the  intermittent 
Trwyn  beam  swung  —  red,  red,  white  —  red,  red, 
white 

They  had  not  to  dig  deep;  there  is  much  volcanic 
rock  under  the  Llanyglo  sand ;  and  they  had  not  set  up 
fences  half  a  dozen  times  without  having  a  notion  where 
it  was. 

"  Here  we  are,"  Harry,  the  builder's  labourer 
grunted  as  his  spade  gave  a  clink  and  a  jump  in  his 
hand.  "  I  thowt  it  wadn't  be  far  off. —  Is  t'  barril 
there,  Tommy  ? " 

Across  a  mound  of  thrown-up  sand  one  of  the  lanterns 
cast  a  short  parabola  of  shadow.  It  was  the  shadow  of  a 
nine-gallon  barrel  of  beer. 

"  Nay,  we  mun  do  a  bit  first,"  Tommy  replied,  spit- 
ting on  his  hands  and  driving  in  his  spade  again. 

Their  house  already  existed,  complete  in  their  prac- 
tical heads,  before  ever  a  spade  was  lifted.  They  had 
seen  through  its  entire  anatomy  in  the  taproom  of  the 
Station  Hotel,  with  beer  to  solve  all  difficulties.  ISToth- 
ing  was  done  twice,  and  brother  did  not  get  in  brother's 
way.  Even  as  Howell  Gruffydd  said,  they  took  a 
corner  of  their  plan  apiece  and  dry-walled,  all  save 
Tommy,  who  went  to  and  fro  with  a  hand-cart,  fetching 
stone,  not  too  much  at  a  time,  because  of  the  dead  soft- 
ness of  the  sand.  For  the  general  design  ISTed's  word 
was  law;  for  details,  each  used  his  own  gumption. 
They  worked  and  grunted,  and  worked  and  grunted,  and 


THE  HAFOD  UNOS  81 

worked.  By  the  time  Sirius  appeared  over  faraway 
Delyn,  and  Orion  balanced  himself  on  Mynedd  Mawr, 
they  had  a  serviceable  first  course  laid.  Then  they  put 
on  their  coats  again,  for  it  was  a  bitter  night  and  they 
perspired,  and  with  a  single  blow  Tommy  neatly  tapped 
the  barrel.  They  drank,  threw  off  their  coats  again, 
and  set  to  work  once  more. 

"  Never  heed  that,  Sam,"  Ned  said  once,  seeing  his 
brother  elaborating  the  stark  essential  plan  that  had 
been  agreed  upon  in  the  taproom  of  the  Station  Hotel. 
"  T'  corners,  t'  beams,  and  t'  roof ;  we  haven't  time  to 
paint  it  and  put  a  pot  o'  geraniums  i'  t'  window." 

By  one  o'clock  the  lanterns  showed  four  irregular 
angles  of  masonry,  shoulder-high,  as  rough  as  you 
please,  but  true  by  plumb  and  level.  This  might  be  a 
joke  against  Llanyglo,  but  it  was  a  workmanlike  one. 
Only  two  of  the  brothers  now  walled,  for  they  had  only 
two  ladders;  Sam  helped  Tom  to  lift  and  carry  beams. 

By  three  o'clock  only  two  of  the  beams  were  laid, 
but  they  were  the  principal  ones,  and  Ned  seemed  well 
content. 

"  That's  t'  main  o'  t'  work,"  he  said,  with  satisfac- 
tion. "  How's  t'  barril  going  on,  Tom  ?  " 

"  True  by  t'  level  yet,"  Tom  replied.  "  Shall  we 
start  on  th'  bread  and  cheese  ? " 

"  Did  ye  think  on  to  bring  some  pickled  onions  ?  " 

"Ay." 

"  Then  we'll  ha'  we're  nooning." 

They  took  their  nooning,  with  Sirius  now  over 
Mynedd  Mawr,  and  Orion  soaring  like  a  kite.  They 
took  it  at  their  leisure ;  they  were  "  lads  from  a  reight 
place,"  setting  about  a  job  as  if  they  meant  to  finish  it, 
not  Welshmen  matchboarding.  A  mountain  of  sand 
filled  the  space  within  their  four  corners,  and  they  lay 


82  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

on  their  backs  on  it,  smoking,  and  watching  the  red  and 
white  spokes  of  the  light  high  over  their  heads,  twenty- 
mile  spokes,  of  a  wheel  that  had  no  circumference  but  its 
sweep  through  the  night.  Now  and  then  Sam  gave  a 
low  chuckle ;  but  Ned  smoked,  spat,  and  was  silent,  save 
that  he  said  from  time  to  time,  "  Did  ye  number  and 
letter  them  chamfers,  Harry  ?  "  or  some  similar  ques- 
tion. You  would  have  said  they  had  a  month  before 
them.  Certainly  the  Kerrs,  when  there  was  a  surprise 
to  be  prepared  for  foreigners  who  meddled  with  their 
watches,  were  members  one  of  another. 

At  half-past  three  they  set  to  work  again.  By  four 
Ned  had  climbed  up  above,  and  was  sitting  astride  a 
beam  with  the  light  of  a  lantern  shining  up  on  his 
streaming  face. 

"  Give  us  another  inch,  Sam,"  he  grunted,  " —  a  bit 
more  —  a  bit  more  —  whoa !  Tom,  that  quoin  —  no, 
th'  one  wi'  th'  bolt  —  this  is  th'  chimney  end  —  and  get 
them  three  strutts  ready,  accordinglie  to  th'  letters.  .  .  . 
How  are  ye  down  there,  Harry  ? " 

The  mason  brother  was  building  the  chimney.  It 
was  an  outside  one,  massive  as  a  buttress,  and  Harry 
was  building  it  well  and  truly,  for  it  was  the  essential 
of  the  house.  Smoke  must  go  up  it  before  dawn,  the 
hearth-smoke  of  civilised  man,  the  lowly  and  secular 
and  beautiful  token  that  he  has  made  himself  an  abid- 
ing-place on  a  spot  of  earth,  and  becomes  part  of  that 
spot,  and  it  part  of  him,  so  that  to  deracinate  him  is  to 
thrust  him  back  again  into  the  bestial  state  and  to  make 
the  land  as  desert  as  the  sea.  By  all  prognostication, 
Edward  Garden's  smoke  should  have  been  the  first  to 
add  itself  to  that  of  the  cluster  of  humble  dwellings 
between  the  mountains  and  the  waves  that  was  Llany- 
glo ;  but  of  that  lawn  of  lightsome  blue  that  veils  Llany- 


THE  HAFOD  TOOS  83 

glo  to-day  the  breakfast-smoke  of  the  Kerrs  was  the  fore- 
runner. At  half-past  four  they  were  shovelling  out  the 
mountain  of  sand  and  making  the  hearth  for  it.  By 
six  Tommy  had  brought  in  the  bundle  of  dry  twigs  and 
faggots  he  had  carefully  hidden  away.  Harry  was  fill- 
ing in  the  space  between  the  main  beam  and  the  transom 
of  the  door ;  when  Tom  asked  him  for  a  match  he  sprang 
down,  and  Ned  and  Sam  also  descended  from  the  roof. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  Tom  asked. 

Ned  gave  a  glance  round,  and  smiled  for  the  first  time 
that  night  as  he  drew  out  his  watch. 

"Five  past  six/'  he  said,  and  added,  with  inde- 
scribable dryness,  " — unless  som'b'dy's  been  meddling 
wi'  my  watch." 

"  Here  goes,"  said  Tommy,  striking  a  match.  .  .  . 

They  exchanged  glances  that  were  near  to  winks  as 
they  watched  the  flames.  It  was  their  equivalent  of  a 
cheer. 

The  night  paled ;  the  Trwyn  light  went  out ;  and  off 
the  headland  a  seal  disported  itself  in  the  icy  sea.  The 
day  stole  across  Delyn,  but  Mynedd  Mawr  still  remained 
an  awful  precipice  of  ink  —  the  shadow  of  the  morning 
bank  lay  over  him.  Then  came  the  first  glitter  on  the 
waves,  and,  as  if  with  light  all  other  faculties  awake, 
folk  became  conscious  of  the  crowing  of  cocks  and  the 
falling  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore.  Howell  Gruffydd 
got  up  and  began  to  rekindle  his  fire.  A  bolt  was  shot 
back  at  Pritchard's  farm.  Dafydd  Dafis  packed  his 
breakfast  in  his  tin  and  set  out  for  his  day's  work  —  a 
little  reslating  of  the  roof  of  the  Baptist  Chapel. 

But  on  his  way  across  the  sandhills  he  suddenly 
changed,  not  only  his  direction,  but  his  gait  also.  He 
advanced  cautiously,  skirted  certain  mounds  of  sand 
that  he  did  not  remember  to  have  seen  before,  and  then 


84  MUSHROOM  TOWK 

as  suddenly  drew  back.  Then,  instead  of  advancing 
again,  he  returned  by  a  circuitous  route,  dropped  into  a 
sunken  sandy  way,  and  then  ran  as  fast  as  his  legs 
would  carry  him  down  to  the  cottages.  There  he  thrust 
his  head  into  Morgan's  cottage  and  said  something,  and 
ran  to  the  next  one  —  or  rather  to  the  next  but  two,  for 
Edward  Garden's  double  cottage  had  been  locked  up 
since  October.  Then  Howell  Gruffydd  came  to  his  shop 
door,  and  Dafydd  called  him. 

Five  minutes  later  half  Llanyglo  was  out  on  the 
sandhills  staring  through  a  gap  at  something  that  lay 
beyond. 

It  was  an  extraordinary  house  they  saw,  and  then 
went  round  to  the  back  to  look  at  from  another  point  of 
view.  It  appeared  to  consist  of  a  living-room  and  a 
scullery,  with  a  patch  under  the  skeleton  of  a  sort  of 
penthouse  at  the  back.  It  was  not  even  on  the  land  that 
had  been  fenced  and  unfenced  and  fenced  again.  Of 
roof  it  had  none  —  for  you  could  hardly  call  the  three 
or  four  tarpaulins,  that  lifted  as  the  wind  got  under 
them  and  were  kept  down  by  stones,  a  roof.  Parts  of 
the  walls  were  solidly  constructed ;  other  parts  had  been 
battened  up  with  hedgestakes,  filled  in  with  sods  and 
peats,  stuffed  up  with  coats,  anything.  It  had  an  old 
door  that  had  been  used  somewhere  else,  and  appeared  to 
be  propped  up  with  stones.  Over  one  window-opening 
hung  an  old  brown  coat,  the  other  frame  was  empty.  A 
bright  glow  shone  on  the  rubble  within,  and  smoke  and 
sparks  came  merrily  from  the  chimney.  The  fire 
crackled  loudly,  and  there  was  a  pleasant  smell  of  cook- 
ing bacon.  All  about  the  cavity  in  the  sand  lay  stones 
big  and  little,  timbers,  stakes,  loops  of  rope.  There 
was  a  hand-cart  too,  with  its  handle  making  a  T  in  the 
air.  A  scraping  sound  was  heard,  as  of  somebody  clean- 


THE  HAFOB  UNOS  85 

ing  out  a  pan,  and  then  came  a  low  "  Wouf  "  and  flare 
of  fat  in  the  chimney.  Then  somebody  spoke. 

"  Squeeze  t'  barril,  Tom,  and  see  if  there's  another 
cup  o'  tea." 

"  Nay,  we've  supped  t'  lot." 

"  Blow  down  t'  vent-hole.  .  .  ." 

As  if  those  walls  vanished  again  even  more  quickly 
than  they  had  sprung  up,  Llanyglo  could  see  a  picture 
vividly  in  its  fancy  —  a  picture  of  a  tilted  barrel,  with 
the  cheeks  of  one  man  distended  over  the  spigot-hole 
while  another  caught  a  muddy  trickle  in  a  thick 
glass  

Then  their  vision  fled,  and  they  were  staring  at  that 
unimaginable  house  again 

Slowly,  and  without  a  word,  they  moved  off  through 
the  soft  sand  in  the  direction  of  the  Baptist  Chapel. 


VI 

THE   FOOT   IN   THE  DOOR 

IT  was  a  Saturday,  a  day  on  which  the  school  did  not 
assemble,  and  the  door  of  the  schoolhouse  was 
locked.  Eesaac  Oliver  Gruffydd  was  sent  off  in  haste 
for  the  key.  They  waited  for  him  to  come  back,  twenty 
of  them,  men  and  women,  with  others  hurrying  over  the 
sandhills  to  join  them.  Eesaac  Oliver  ran  panting  up 
again,  and  they  entered  the  schoolhouse.  This  was  a 
large,  yellow-washed  room  with  beams  making  triangles 
overhead  and  hot-water  pipes  running  round  the  walls 
below.  A  small  squad  of  desks  stood  upright  behind, 
and  a  number  of  smaller  benches  knelt,  as  it  were,  in 
front  of  them.  These  faced  the  raised  desk  of  Miss 
£Tancy  Pritchard,  the  schoolmistress.  A  yellow  chair 
or  two,  a  couple  of  glass-fronted  cupboards,  a  row  of 
hooks  for  caps  and  cloaks  at  the  back,  and  a  harmonium, 
completed  the  furniture.  A  short  covered  way  near 
Miss  Pritchard's  desk  gave  access  to  the  adjoining 
Chapel.  A  door  at  the  side  of  this  led  to  the  little 
stone  outhouse  where  the  water  for  the  pipes  both  of 
school  and  Chapel  was  heated. 

Their  astonished  exclamations  had  broken  out  now. 
As  something  legendary  and  dear  and  native  to  their 
land,  it  was  in  their  hearts  to  defend  the  Haf od  Unos ; 
but  for  a  stranger  to  set  one  up ! 

"  Look  you,  it  can-not  be  legal !  "  exclaimed  Hugh 

Morgan,  a  little  tubby  man  with  semicircular  brows  and 

86 


THE  FOOT  IN  THE  DOOR  87 

a  round  bald  forehead.  "  It  iss  not  even  finiss ;  there 
iss  holes  in  the  walls  so-a  big  I  put  my  head  through 
them !  And  that  iss  not  a  roof  —  it  iss  only  rick- 
covers  " 

"  It  is  wonderful  how  they  did  it,  whatever !  "  said 
little  restless-eyed  Mrs.  Gruffydd.  Those  predatory 
eyes  in  Blodwen  Gruffydd's  pale  face  could  see  a  six- 
pence a  mile  away,  and,  having  seen  it,  would  not  leave  it 
again  until  it  had  been  safely  dropped  through  the  slot 
of  the  money-box  into  which  the  savings  for  Eesaac 
Oliver's  education  went.  Eesaac  Oliver  was  not  to 
serve  packets  of  tea  and  pennyworths  of  bicarbonate  of 
soda  over  a  grocer's  counter.  He  was  to  go  to  Aberyst- 
with  College,  and  to  become  a  preacher,  and  wear  a 
black  chip  straw  hat. 

Howell  Gruffydd,  who  had  been  as  thunderstruck  as 
the  rest  of  them,  now  affected  to  take  a  jocular  view  of 
the  matter. 

"  De-ar  me,  first  Mr.  Garden's  house,  and  now  Ty 
Kerr!  Well,  it  make  trade.  Indeed,  I  need  a  bigger 
s'op  presently  —  I  think  I  start  a  Limited  Com- 
pany   " 

But  big  consumptive  John  Pritchard  spoke  in  deep 
tones.  More  vividly  than  any  of  them,  John  had  seen, 
as  if  in  a  camera  obscura,  that  vision  of  a  Kerr  blowing 
into  the  vent-hote  of  a  barrel,  while  another  Kerr 
anxiously  watched  the  tap. — "  We  need  a  bigger  public- 
house,  I  think,"  he  said  grimly. 

"  Indeed  you  are  right,  John  Pritchard,"  Hugh 
Morgan  struck  eagerly  in,  the  curves  of  his  brows  all 
marred  with  anxiety.  "  They  sit  in  the  Sta-tion  Hotel 
Porth  Neigr,  and  do  noth-thing  but  drinking  all  day  — 
it  set  a  s'ock-king  example,  whatever." 

"  And  they  call  it  *  ano-ther  cup  of  tea/  "  said  a  third. 


88  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"  They  very  smart  ones " 

Again  John  Pritchard's  deep  voice  came  in. 
— "  They're  very  deep  ones." 

Little  Hugh  Morgan  spoke  excitedly. 

"  Indeed  you  are  right  again,  John  Pritchard !  John 
Williams  Porth  Neigr,  he  say  to  me  it  would  not  sur- 
prise him  if  that  Ned  Kerr  speak  Weiss  so  well  as 
nobody  if  he  wiss !  " 

A  shocked  "  Aw-w-w!  "  broke  out.  "  And  he  say  in 
the  Court,  ' No  Weiss!'" 

"  Tut-tut-tut  —  de-ar  me !  " 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  contemplating  this 
duplicity. 

"  And  there  iss  four  of  them  now,"  one  resumed. 
"  They  send  into  England  for  two  more." 

"We  soon  have  large  population,"  said  Howell 
Gruffydd  again.  .  .  . 

John  Pritchard  had  sat  down  on  one  of  the  yellow 
chairs  with  his  knees  a  yard  apart.  His  brows  seemed 
knitted. 

"  But  there  is  noth-thing  for  them  to  do  here,"  he 
said.  "  No  work,  no  wages  —  only  building  fences." 

"  Perhaps  they  have  lot  of  money.  Their  bacon  smell 
very  good,  whatever." 

"  They  finiss  their  breakfast  —  I  heard  them  wipe 
the  frying-pan  out  as  plain  as  if  I  see  it  with  my  eyes !  " 

Again  John  Pritchard's  heavy  voice :  "  Finiss  their 
breakfast  indeed !  They  finiss  a  whole  barrel  of  beer !  " 

"  And  it  is  right  what  Hugh  Morgan  says,"  another 
struck  in.  "  That  Ned  Kerr,  he  know  Wales  as  well  as 
I  know  my  two  hands !  I  have  let-ter  from  my  cousin 
Thomas  Thomas  in  Towyn,  and  he  say  they  buy  lot-t 
of  alders  up  the  Dysynni  two  years  ago  of  Mr.  Llewelyn 
Jones  of  Abergynolwyn,  and  set  up  a  hut  in  the  'ood, 


THE  FOOT  IN  THE  BOOK  89 

and  make  their  clog  soles,  and  pay  six-pence  a  foot  for 
the  trees." 

"He  set  up  more  than  a  hut  at  Llanyglo,  what- 
ever ! " 

"  Indeed  they  do  no  such  thing !  The  Haf  od  Unos 
belong  to  the  old  days.  There  iss  no  new  Hafod  Unos 
I  don't  know  this  how  many  years !  " 

"All  the  old  things  was  new  things  once,  Hugh 
Morgan." 

Then,  as  if  all  at  once  they  saw  anew  that  house  so 
magically  sprung  up  out  of  the  sand,  there  fell  a 
silence.  Howell  Gruffydd  might  make  his  jests  about 
taking  a  larger  shop  and  forming  a  Limited  Company, 
but  the  hard  fact  remained,  that  aliens  had  squatted 
down  at  Llanyglo  while  they  had  slept,  and,  by  force 
or  process  of  law,  might  be  difficult  to  turn  out  again. 
Howell's  jocosity  subsided;  among  the  children's  forms 
and  benches  they  took  counsel  together;  and  when,  at 
half-past  ten,  John  Pritchard's  eldest  lad  came  in  with 
the  news  that  one  of  the  Kerrs  had  departed  along  the 
Forth  Neigr  road,  while  the  other  three  kept  guard  over 
what  they  had  won,  they  drew  closer  together  still,  and 
spoke  in  low  tones  of  boycott. 

Then  suddenly  somebody  asked  what  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams  of  Ponteglwys  would  say,  and  the  quick  little 
outburst  of  "  Yes,  indeed,"  "  Well  said,"  "  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams  have  some-thing  to  say,"  showed  how  perti- 
nent the  observation  was  considered.  For  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams,  the  Member,  would  be  able  to  tell  them,  if 
anybody  could,  whether  the  Hafod  Unos  was  counte- 
nanced by  the  Law,  and  whether  the  intruders  could 
be  served  with  notice  to  quit.  His  promised  visit  now 
took  on  an  added  urgency. 

"  It  is  a  pit-ty  Mr.  Williams  fall  out  with  Squire 


90  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Wynne,"  Hugh  Morgan  remarked.  "  It  will  be  the 
Squire  who  will  have  to  give  them  notice,  whatever." 

"  They  quarrel  one  day  outside  the  Court  at  Forth 
Neigr." 

"But  indeed,  Howell  Gruffydd,  Mr.  Tudor  Wil- 
lianms  wass  in  the  right  —  it  was  about  the  Tithes, 
and  the  Tithe  iss  a  wick-ked  system " 

"  Aw-w-w,  but  the  Weiss  Members  they  alter  all 
that  very  soon !  " 

"  But  the  Squire  and  the  Bis-sop  of  St.  Asaph  is 
great  friends " 

"  Indeed  that  Bis-sop  of  St.  Asaph  he  look  at  a 
Chap-pil  like  as  if  it  wass  not  worth  his  eyesight !  " 

Dafydd  Dafis,  who  sat  on  a  child's  bench,  looking 
moodily  at  the  floor,  had  not  spoken  yet.  He  gave  a 
quick  glance  up,  and  then  looked  down  again. 

"  The  Church  iss  a  great  robber,"  he  muttered  within 
his  moustache.  .  .  . 

They  discussed  questions  of  ecclesiastical  polity.  .  .  . 

"  It  iss  a  great  robber/'  said  Dafydd  Dafis,  again 
resuming  his  former  attitude. 

Then  Howell  Gruffydd  rose,  and  one  or  two  others 
followed  his  example.  There  was  the  day's  work  to  be 
done.  Soon  all  moved  to  the  door,  but  before  going 
about  their  businesses  they  went  to  take  another  look  at 
that  astonishing  house. 

But  they  looked  only  from  a  distance.  If  they  had 
assumed  that  the  Kerrs,  having  worked  all  night,  would 
now  be  sleeping,  they  were  wrong.  They  could  see 
them,  three  of  them,  still  busily  walling,  filling,  shovel- 
ling out  sand. 

"  They  try  to  finiss  before  Sunday,"  Hugh  Morgan 
said. 

But  big  John  Pritchard  glared  sternly  at  him. 


THE  FOOT  IN  THE  DOOR  91 

"  They  care  noth-thing  for  Sunday,  those  ones,"  he 
said.  "  That  other  one  will  have  gone  for  more  beer." 
And  he  added,  in  solemn  tones,  "  It  iss  a  den  of  li-ons !  " 

The  fencing  dispute  had  now  sunk  into  insignifi- 
cance. 

It  quickly  appeared,  even  as  John  Pritchard  had  said, 
that  the  Kerrs  cared  nothing  for  Sunday.  At  a  quarter 
to  ten  on  the  morning  of  that  day,  Howell  Gruffydd,  in 
his  tight  black  frock-coat  and  bowler  hat,  passing  up  the 
sandy  gully  on  his  way  to  the  Methodist  Chapel,  heard 
sounds  of  carousing.  He  turned  aside  to  look.  The 
door  of  the  Hafod  stood  open,  and  a  second  barrel  of 
beer,  together  with  provisions  and  some  sticks  of  furni- 
ture, had  been  fetched  during  the  night.  Tommy,  the 
youngest  of  the  Kerrs,  was  already  drunk  and  singing. 
The  eldest  of  them,  seeing  Howell  Gruffydd,  gave  him 
an  insolently  familiar  nod,  as  if  he  had  as  much  right 
to  be  there  as  anybody  else. 

"  Cold  mornin',"  he  said.  "  Are  ye  coming  in  to 
hev'  a  tot  ? " 

Howell  turned  away. 

After  service,  Howell  encountered  John  Pritchard. 
John,  too,  had  heard  that  godless  levity  from  afar. 
Others  gathered  round  them  by  the  gap  in  the  thymy 
earth-wall,  and  John  raised  his  voice  on  high.  It  shook 
with  bitter  zeal. 

"  We  hear  them  in  the  Chap-pil,  in  the  mid-die  of 
prayers,  singing !  "  he  cried.  "  On  a  Sunday  morning 
they  sing ;  they  sing  '  Thomas,  make  Room  for  your 
Uncle ! '  I  said  it  was  a  den  of  li-ons,  but  indeed  no 
li-ons  ever  behave  so  s'ock-kingly !  They  sing  '  Thomas, 
make  Room  for  your  Uncle/  in  the  mid-die  of  prayers, 
like  if  it  was  out  of  the  belly  of  hell !  " 

Dafydd  Daiis,  whose  head  for  a  day  and  a  half  had 


92  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

drooped  like  a  wet  head  of  corn,  gave  a  quick  gleaming 
glance. 

"  They  not  build  it  any  more  quick  than  it  can  be 
pulled  down  again,"  he  said  quickly.  "  They  come  out 
of  the  house  sometime  to  work,  I  think.  They  not 
gentry  with  lot  of  money,  whatever." 

And  that  was  true.  The  Kerrs  could  hardly  earn 
their  living  by  drinking  beer  and  having  continually  to 
mount  guard  over  the  house  they  had  made. 

"  There  will  be  no  peace  in  Llanyglo  now  till  Mr. 
Tudor  Williams  has  been." 

Dafydd  Bafis's  head  drooped  again. 

"  Indeed  we  do  not  need  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  for 
this,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath. 

And  the  Kerrs  themselves?  Did  they  suppose  they 
could  plant  themselves  thus  in  the  enemy's  midst  and 
not  meet  with  hostile  entertainment? 

For  this  we  may  perhaps  go  once  more  to  the  gentle- 
man without  whose  friendly  help  the  Llanyglo  Guide 
would  have  been  done  quite  as  well  as  it  needed  to  be, 
and  in  half  the  time. 

"  It's  difficult  to  say,  for  two  reasons,"  this  gentleman 
said.  "  In  the  first  place,  the  humour  of  some  of  these 
Lancashire  fellows  is  such  an  incalculable  thing;  you 
never  know  how  far  they  will  carry  it,  nor  how  soon  it 
will  end  in  black  eyes  and  bloody  noses.  And  in  the 
second  place,  there  was  that  humanitarian  scatterbrain, 
Armfield.  I  believe  myself  that  probably  Armfield 
had  already  told  !Ned  Kerr  that  there  would  be  work 
presently.  .  .  . 

"  Of  course,  you've  heard  what  Armfield's  scheme 
was.  The  Syndicate  had  decided  not  to  rectify  any 
more  errors  of  Providence  about  the  disposition  of  coal 
and  manganese ;  they  only  wanted  to  clear  out  altogether, 


THE  FOOT  IN  THE  DOOR  93 

leaving  somebody  else  '  holding  the  baby  ' —  I  believe 
that's  the  expression.  Their  idea  was  simplicity  itself : 
to  buy  land  at  a  shilling  and  sell  it  again  at  ten;  but 
they  didn't  express  it  quite  so  nakedly.  That  was  where 
Terry  Annfield  came  in  —  to  dress  the  enterprise  up 
and  m#ke  it  attractive.  As  long  as  he  enabled  them 
to  cut  their  loss  they  didn't  care  what  he  did  with 
Llanyglo. 

"And  there  was  nothing  really  wrong  with  the 
scheme,  except  that  Terry  was  twenty  years  before  his 
time,  and  naturally  had  to  suffer  for  it.  I  think  he 
called  it  '  The  Thelema  Estate  Development  Company,' 
and  nowadays  it  would  be  called  a  Garden  City.  And 
if  Terry  hadn't  Edward  Garden's  sense  of  the  line  of 
least  resistance,  you  must  remember  that  he  hadn't 
Edward  Garden's  '  inside '  information  either.  He 
had  nothing  but  that  ecstatic  power  of  persuading 
people.  And  he  did  persuade  them.  I  doubt  if  half  a 
dozen  of  the  people  he  sold  to  ever  saw  the  place.  Two 
of  them  did,  though,  two  brothers,  in  the  produce  line. 
They  went  down,  and  came  back  again,  and  quietly  sold 
out,  keeping  strictly  to  Terry's  representations;  and  I 
believe  they  warned  Terry  then  that  if  he  wasn't  care- 
ful he'd  be  getting  into  trouble.  I  asked  them  what 
they'd  been  thinking  of  to  let  themselves  be  persuaded 
by  a  hare-brained  enthusiast  like  that.  They  told  me 
it  was  all  very  well  for  me  to  talk  now.  They  knew 
perfectly  well  all  the  time  that  it  was  only  one  of 
Terry's  dreams  of  a  better  and  a  brighter  world,  but 
they  bought  for  all  that,  and  so  did  crowds  of  others. 
Terry  didn't  admit  a  single  difficulty.  He  talked  about 
angels  and  the  higher  life.  He  talked  about  Pugin  and 
the  soul's  need  for  seasons  of  contemplation  and  repose. 
He  talked  about  the  air  and  the  sea  and  the  mountains 


94 

and  the  Trwyn,  and  he  made  it  out  to  be  Llanyglo's 
chief  merit  that  it  took  a  whole  day  to  get  there.  .  .  . 
And  so  on.  To  cut  it  short,  they  were  to  do  their  own 
building,  but  Terry,  as  vendor,  undertook  the  rest  — 
laying  out  certain  roads,  draining  and  lighting  them,  I 
believe  the  building  of  a  sort  of  public  hall,  and  so 
forth.  I  don't  think  he  said  anything  about  the 
Chapels. 

"  And  that  (to  get  back  where  we  started  from)  is 
probably  the  reason  the  Kerrs  stood  by." 

Whether  Dafydd  Dafis  would  have  watched  the  Kerrs 
out  of  the  Hafod,  or,  failing  that,  whether  he  would 
have  pulled  it  down  over  their  heads,  is  hardly  worth 
debating;  for,  as  it  happened,  that  very  Sunday  night 
there  befell  something  that  for  the  time  being  had  all 
the  effect  of  a  declared  truce  between  the  hamlet  and 
its  invaders.  Something  deeper  and  more  solemn  than 
the  machinations  of  man  took  a  hand  in  the  making  of 
Llanyglo.  This  was  the  wind.  It  began  to  get  up 
at  about  three  o'clock  that  afternoon ;  all  day  there  had 
been  a  swell;  and  Dafydd  Dafis  and  others,  returning 
from  Ho  well  Gruffydd's  house  (where  a  second  letter  to 
Mr.  Tudor  Williams  Ponteglwys  had  been  written,  as 
urgent  as  Eesaac  Oliver's  pen  could  make  it),  saw  all 
four  of  the  brothers  on  the  roof,  trying  to  secure  the 
tarpaulin  in  which  the  wind  volleyed;  their  roof-slates 
were  not  expected  till  the  following  Wednesday.  The 
ground  was  a  blurr  of  flying  sand ;  the  sea  resembled  a 
tossing  fleece  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see;  and  from 
moment  to  moment  the  waves,  breaking  over  the  Trwyn, 
rose  in  slow,  gigantic  fountains,  fell  again,  and  then 
came  the  roar.  The  four  men  clung  like  limpets  to 
the  roof,  crouching  until  the  worst  gusts  were  past  and 


THE  FOOT  IN  THE  DOOB  95 

then  resuming  their  hammering.  They  were  trying  to 
nail  the  covering  down,  using  pieces  of  wood  as  washers 
to  prevent  the  material  from  ripping. 

Suddenly  Dafydd  Dans,  looking  up  under  his  brows, 
saw  Ned  Kerr  pause  with  his  hammer  lifted  and  peer 
out  to  sea.  Then,  without  moving  his  head,  Ned  put 
up  his  hand  and  appeared  to  be  shouting  something  to 
the  others.  All  four  looked,  and  so  did  the  men  of 
Llanyglo,  but  from  the  ground  below  they  could  see 
nothing. 

Then,  all  in  a  moment,  Ned  Kerr  gave  a  scramble 
and  a  spring,  came  down  like  a  bundle  into  a  mound  of 
soft  sand,  and  was  followed  tumblingwise  by  the  others. 
There  was  a  rip  and  a  crack,  and  the  released  tarpaulin 
was  a  hundred  yards  away,  napping  grotesquely  over  the 
sandhills.  Ned  was  up  again  in  an  instant,  and  as  he 
passed  Dafydd  Dafis  at  a  run  he  shouted  a  single  word 
in  Welsh: 

"  Llongddrylliad  !  " 

It  was  a  wreck. 

The  boats  by  the  short  thumb  of  a  jetty  had  not  been 
used  for  a  week,  and  lay  high  up  the  beach.  Could 
they  have  got  them  through  that  boiling  of  white  sea 
and  brown  sand  there  was  a  towering  ridge  to  be  seen 
beyond,  maned  with  spray,  that  rushed  forward  and 
burst  only  to  show  another  in  the  same  place.  No  more 
than  one  at  a  time  could  be  seen.  The  boats  were  open 
boats,  and  night  was  coming  on.  Small  wonder  there 
seemed  little  to  do  but  pray. 

But  Ned  Kerr  shouted  another  word. — "Bad!" 

From  the  top  of  the  Hafod  he  had  seen  a  ship's  boat. 

The  next  moment  he  and  Dafydd  Dafis  had  each  a 
shoulder  to  Hugh  Morgan's  boat,  and  William  Morgan, 
the  three  remaining  Kerrs,  and  another  man,  were 


96  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

hauling.  All  save  the  youngest  Kerr  continued  to 
tumble  aboard  as  the  boat  lifted.  He  tried  to  struggle 
after  it,  but  was  overturned,  and  they  dragged  him  out 
and  turned  him  upside  down  to  pour  the  water  out  of 
him. 

They  have  a  lifeboat  now  at  Llanyglo,  The  Ratchet, 
presented  and  maintained  by  the  town  of  that  name ;  but 
that  night  the  men  of  Lancashire  and  the  men  of  Llany- 
glo went  out  in  one  of  the  half-dozen  open  boats.  They 
put  her  into  the  brown,  and  a  moment  later  the  water 
had  slipped  from  under  her  and  she  sat  down  on  the 
sand,  with  every  plank  started.  They  got  ashore  again 
as  best  they  could,  and  raced  for  another  boat  and  more 
oars.  They  put  out  again.  They  dare  not  use  the 
wooden  jetty,  of  which  only  the  beginning  could  be 
seen.  The  first  boat  was  already  matchwood.  A  sea 
crawled  up  the  Trwyn  almost  as  far  as  the  Light.  They 
inspected  its  ravage  the  next  day.  It  stood  as  a  record 
for  many  years. 

Then  the  boat  passed  the  brown,  and  stood  out  to 
that  pale  wall  smoking  with  spray.  The  wall  came  on 
and  broke  with  a  crash  that  shook  the  shore.  A  woman 
gave  a  shrill  scream  .  .  .  then  they  saw  the  boat 
again 

It  seemed  madness  to  think  that  that  open  boat 
would  be  safer  out  beyond 

After  that,  though  they  watched,  they  saw  nothing. 

Then  the  Trwyn  Light  opened  its  eye,  two  reds  and 
a  white.  All  Llanyglo  was  gathered  on  the  beach,  and 
none  thought  of  going  to  Chapel.  Night  fell;  the  sky 
became  clear  as  black  ice ;  the  dim  seas  resembled  a  lair 
of  white  bears  at  play.  Seven  o'clock  passed,  and 
eight.  .  .  .  Already  in  folks'  minds  the  grim  thought 
was  born ;  it  might  have  been  worse.  They  had  dragged 


97 

Hugh  Morgan  back  as  the  second  boat  had  pushed  off, 
and  none  of  the  Llanyglo  men  was  married.  Whether 
the  three  Kerrs  were  married  or  not  nobody  knew. 

Nine  o'clock  came.  .  .  . 

Blodwen  Gruffydd  saw  the  return  first,  if,  indeed, 
that  vague  speck  lost  in  the  grey  combings  were  they. 
Again  the  wave  came  on,  and  another  hideous  range 
lifted  its  grey  ridge.  .  .  .  By  a  miracle,  it  boiled  far 
away  to  right  and  left,  but  rolled,  a  grey-dappled  dead 
weight,  under  the  boat.  Already  half  a  dozen  men 
with  a  rope  were  waist-deep  in  the  water.  .  .  . 

Then,  as  the  boat  crawled  on  its  oars  like  an  insect, 
another  crest  rose,  tilted  them  so  that  man  fell  on  man, 
and  a  man  came  out.  .  .  . 

They  at  the  rope  were  swept  out  by  the  backwash  to 
meet  them.  .  .  . 

And  after  all,  they  had  come  back  empty-handed. 
They  had  seen  neither  ship  nor  boat. 

But  (and  this,  in  this  tale  of  Llanyglo  and  of  those 
who  made  it  and  were  made  by  it,  is  the  point),  an 
hour  later  Dafydd  Dafis,  opening  his  eyes  for  the  first 
time  since  he  had  been  hauled  out  of  the  water,  said 
something  in  Welsh  to  John  Pritchard,  who  bent  over 
him.  Translated  it  ran : 

"  I  would  not  pull  that  one's  house  down." 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes  again. 

As  far  as  the  Haf od  TJnos  was  concerned,  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams's  visit  now  seemed  superfluous. 


VII 

THE    MEMBEB 

OSTENSIBLY,  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  came  to 
Llanyglo  to  assist  at  a  Sasiwn,  which  is  a  gath- 
ering very  much  like  the  Love  Feasts  of  other  parts  of 
the  country  (indeed,  if  memory  serves,  Mr.  Wesley 
gave  these  assemblies  for  prayer  and  mutual  consola- 
tion the  latter  name  as  far  north  in  Wales  as  Builth  — 
hut  then  Mr.  Wesley  did  not  speak  Welsh).  Neither 
the  fencing  dispute  nor  the  question  of  the  Hafod  Unos 
had  taken  nominal  precedence  of  this.  But  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams's  visit  was  also  something  more.  He  was  a 
Member  returning  to  his  own  constituency  —  exalted, 
yet  their  servant,  familiar  with  the  great  ones  of  the 
land,  yet  by  their  favour.  For  that  reason  they  liked 
him  to  bring  the  evidences  of  his  greatness  back  with 
him. 

Mr.  Tudor  Williams  did  so,  and  handsomely.  He 
was  a  small  nimble  man  with  black  brows  and  a  ragged 
silvery  moustache,  and  a  very  erect  and  conscious  car- 
riage of  the  head.  He  wore  a  silk  hat,  a  turned-down 
collar  with  a  flat  black  bow,  a  frockcoat  with  volumi- 
nous lapels  of  watered  silk,  grey  trousers,  and  new 
black  kid  gloves.  He  drove  from  Forth  Neigr  in  the 
carriage  that  had  been  lent  him  by  a  political  supporter, 
and  alighted  at  the  gap  opposite  John  Pritchard's  farm. 
They  would  have  run  forward  to  greet  him,  but  a  certain 

awe  of  his  clothes  and  equipage  combined  with  their 

98 


THE  MEMBER  99 

own  dignity  as  makers  and  unmakers  of  such  as  he  to 
keep  them  where  they  stood,  in  a  semicircle  across 
the  road. 

But  if  they  were  at  one  and  the  same  time  a  little 
intimidated  and  filled  out  with  pride  in  him,  Mr. 
Tudor  Williams  knew  no  hesitation.  He  sprang  down 
from  the  carriage,  grasped  John  Pritchard  by  the  hand, 
and  then,  not  content  with  that,  patted  him  all  up  the 
arm  as  far  as  the  shoulder  and  across  the  breast  with  the 
other  hand,  as  if  he  conferred  invisible  decorations  on 
him.  His  eyes  were  moist,  but  glad  greetings  flowed 
from  his  tongue,  in  an  accent  that  would  have  put  the 
most  diffident  speaker  of  English  at  his  ease. 

"Well,  John  Pritchard!  Well,  well!  Indeed  you 
have  not  grown  any  less!  A  lit-tle  man  like  me,  I 
hardly  reach  up  to  your  shoulder!  Aw-w-w,  you  look 
splen-did!  I  was  spik-king  of  you  a  few  days  ago  to 
the  Member  for  Carnarvon  Boroughs  —  but  dear  me, 
here  am  I  neglecting  the  ladies  —  I  tell  you  pres- 
ently—  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Gruffydd?  This  young 
man  is  never  Eesaac  Oliver !  Aw-w-w,  how  he  grows ! 
Did  you  write  the  let-ter  to  me,  Eesaac  Oliver  ?  That's 
the  style!  Education,  knowledge  —  it  is  a  grand 
thing !  —  Now,  Dafydd  Dafis !  And  how  is  the  harp  ? 
You  sing  me  Y  Godly s  by  and  by : 

'  Mae  cynhwrf  yn  y  ceunant, 
Ar  derfyn  dydd  y  gad ' 

—  dear,  dear,  you  have  to  go  away  before  you  can 
come  home  again!  There  is  nothing  like  this  over 
there;  there  is  not  the  sym-pathy;  as  I  was  saying  to 
the  Member  for  Caermarthen,  Mr.  Hughes  Caegwynion, 
not  three,  four  days  ago,  (  You  get  no  sym-pathy  from 
England  and  the  Englishman ' —  and  indeed  you  do 


100  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

not. —  Here  comes  Howell  Gruffydd,  run-ning  (indeed 
he  runs  like  a  deer,  Mrs.  Grufiydd!). —  Now,  Howell 
Gruffydd,  you  miss  the  train  if  you  don't  look  sharp 
(he's  making  so  much  money  he  cannot  leave  the  shop 
for  a  min-nit!). —  Now,  my  old  friend  William  Mor- 
gan !  How  is  the  rheumatics  ?  —  How  are  you,  Hugh  ? 
—  Is  this  your  youngest,  Mrs.  Roberts  ?  Hwhat !  An- 
other since !  Aw-w-w  —  and  you  more  like  an  elder 
sister  than  a  mother !  .  .  .  And  there  is  the  Trwyn,  just 
the  same " 

He  was  staying  the  night  with  John  Pritchard,  and 
the  two  moved  away  to  the  house,  the  others  following 
a  yard  or  two  behind.  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  advanced 
to  ancient  Mrs.  Pritchard's  chair,  took  the  hand  that 
resembled  a  dead  bird's  foot,  and  shouted  in  her 
ear: 

"  Tou  see  I  do  not  lose  a  min-nit  before  I  come  to 
see  you,  Mrs.  Pritchard!  "  he  cried  in  Welsh.  ("  In- 
deed she  is  a  wonderful  old  'ooman!) — How  many 
grandchildren  have  you  now,  Mrs.  Pritchard  ?  "  (The 
old  woman  nodded  her  aged  head.)  "  Great-grand- 
children! N o-o-o !  Think  of  that!  But  I  think  you 
all  live  for  ever  at  Llanyglo.  It  is  not  like  London.  If 
I  could  take  bagsfull  of  this  air  back  with  me  I  make  my 
f or-tune !  —  Now,  Miss  Pritchard,  I  think  I  must  have 
offended  you,  you  are  so  long  in  spik-king  to  me !  And 
how  is  all  in  school  ?  I  tell  you  press-ently  something 
straight  from  the  Board  of  Ed-u-ca-tion  for  you  to  try. 
You  whisper  a  subject  in  the  scholar's  ear  as  he  cornea 
in  at  the  door,  and  he  walk  straight  to  the  middle  of  the 
room,  no  time  for  think-king,  and  speak  for  five  minutes 
about  it !  That  will  make  them  ready  speakers,  hwhat  ? 
That  will  accustom  them  to  public  life  and  speaking  in 
the  Chapel?  But  I  tell  you  later. —  Now,  my  old 


THE  MEMBER  101 

friend  John,  if  I  could  wash  my  hands  before  sitting 
down  to  a  cup  of  tea  —  then  we  will  talk " 

He  was  shown  into  the  best  bedroom,  with  the  cork- 
framed  funeral-cards  and  the  cardboard  watch-pockets 
on  the  walls,  and  the  sound  of  his  moving  about  and 
pouring  out  water  and  spluttering  as  he  washed  his  face 
could  be  heard  by  those  who  waited  below.  Then  he 
descended  again  and  sat  down. 

"  Well,"  he  said  by  and  by,  from  his  place  where  he 
sat  at  the  table  alone,  they  respectfully  yet  proprietor- 
ially  watching  him  eat  and  drink  his  tea,  "  now  tell 
me  about  those  matters  in  the  letter  you  wrote.  ...  I 
mean  the  other  matters.  .  .  ." 

Eut  let  us,  before  we  pass  to  the  other  matters,  look 
at  the  company  that  watched  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  eat. 

First  there  was  John  Pritchard,  sitting  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table  with  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  and 
now  and  then  turning  his  body  a  little  aside  and  bowing 
his  back  to  cough.  There  was  John,  stern  religionist, 
believing  in  God  and  Disendowment ;  obstinate,  dull, 
just,  unsmiling ;  as  ready  for  the  Day  of  Judgment  as  if 
it  had  been  the  audit-day  of  the  accounts  he  kept  as 
principal  trustee  of  the  Baptist  Chapel.  For  all  that  he 
was  so  rooted  in  Llanyglo  that  he  had  never  travelled 
farther  than  Forth  ITeigr  in  the  whole  of  his  life,  he  was 
as  ardent  a  supporter  of  Missionary  Endeavour  abroad 
as  his  voice  was  powerful  at  the  Sasiwn  at  home.  He 
watched  Mr.  Tudor  Williams's  plate,  and  with  his 
thumb  made  signs  for  his  daughter  to  replenish  it. 

Next,  there  was  Howell  Gruffydd,  with  his  pale  and 
studious  son,  Eesaac  Oliver.  You  might  have  been 
sure  even  then  that,  should  Llanyglo  ever  grow,  Howell 
Grufiydd's  fortune  would  grow  with  it.  Howell  con- 
sidered a  good  penny  worth  the  putting  into  his  pocket, 


102  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

and,  as  if  his  apron  (which,  however,  he  had  now  left 
behind  at  the  shop)  had  made  half  a  housewife  of  him, 
he  cared  nothing,  so  it  brought  in  money,  whether  he 
did  a  man's  labour  or  washed  up  the  dishes  or  black- 
leaded  the  grate.  He  could  not  read,  but  if  at  Forth 
Neigr  a  stranger  chanced  to  ask  him  the  way,  he  would 
smile  and  reply,  "  There  is  the  signpost,"  allowing  it  to 
be  understood  that  his  questioner  might  read  as  well  as 
he  himself.  Howell  had  his  inner  dream.  It  was  of 
a  shop  with  two  large  windows,  and  a  bell  inside  the 
door,  and  brightly  varnished  showcards,  and  pyramids 
of  tinned  salmon,  and  peas  within  the  window  that 
should  suggest  the  noses  of  children  flattened  against  the 
pane,  and  handbills  distributed  in  the  streets,  and  two 
assistants,  and  a  son  at  College,  who  should  read  for 
two,  and  perhaps  —  who  knew  ?  —  sit  while  his  con- 
stituents watched  him  eat  his  tea  —  Mr.  Eesaac  Oliver 
Gruffydd,  M.P. 

Then,  with  his  cap  in  his  hands  and  his  feet  shifting 
nervously,  there  was  Dafydd  Dafis,  next  to  Eesaac 
Oliver,  on  the  sofa.  Should  purchases  and  rumoured 
purchases  of  land  prove  to  be  a  portent,  Dafydd  had 
all  to  lose  and  nothing  to  gain  by  change.  With  that 
soft  cruelty  of  his  of  which  the  hard  and  more  pro- 
foundly sentimental  Englishman  knows  nothing,  Dafydd 
was  at  least  disinterested.  The  Kerrs  he  had  forborne 
to  harm,  but  he  only  hated  them  the  more  on  that  ac- 
count. He  himself  would  not  have  killed  one  of  the 
blue  and  primrose  butterflies  that  in  the  summer  hovered 
over  the  Llanyglo  buffets  of  wild  thyme,  and  he  could 
not  understand  a  country  that  said  it  was  fond  of 
animals  and  yet,  like  these  Lancashire  men,  hunted  rats 
with  terriers  and  coursed  hares  with  dogs.  Alone  of 
that  nation  he  had  for  a  time  loved  delicate  little  Minetta 


THE  MEMBER  103 

Garden,  and  had  told  her  stories  of  fairies  and  had  sung 
Serch  Hudol  and  Mentra  Gwen  to  her ;  but  Minetta  had 
gone.  All  the  things  for  which  Dafydd  Dafis  cared  had 
gone,  or  were  going,  and  Dafydd  was  lonely.  He  told 
his  harp  so,  with  those  warped  and  stealing  fingers,  and 
the  harp  made  music  of  his  pain.  All  that  Dafydd 
would  gain  by  change  would  be  memories  that  became 
ever  the  more  poignant  the  more  they  were  attenuated, 
and  the  less  the  world  cared  for  him  and  his  unprofitable 
life. 

Passing  constantly  between  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  and 
the  saucepan  where  the  eggs  boiled,  or  the  plate  in  the 
fender  where  the  lightcakes  kept  hot,  was  Miss  Nancy 
{nee  IvTansi)  Pritchard,  schoolmistress  and  virtual  cus- 
todian of  the  Post  Office.  The  development  of  Llany- 
glo,  did  that  ever  come  to  pass,  would  be  a  good  thing 
for  Nancy,  for  otherwise  there  was  none  in  Llanyglo  to 
marry  her,  and  to  domestic  service  elsewhere  she  could 
not  have  stooped.  She  was  tall  and  plump  and  ruddy, 
with  black  hair  and  black-lashed  blue  eyes,  and  in  her 
conversation  she  gave  the  preference  to  the  longer  words. 
She  had  been  to  school  in  Bangor,  wore  the  longest  skirts 
in  Llanyglo,  and  between  her  and  her  father's  guest  was 
the  bond  of  their  common  superiority  to  everybody  else 
there.  She  was  a  partie,  for  John  Pritchard  was  well- 
to-do;  but  for  whom?  Apparently  for  nobody  whom 
Llanyglo  had  yet  seen. 

The  remaining  spectators,  with  the  exception  of  old 
Mrs.  Pritchard,  who  resembled  a  mummy  rather  than  a 
spectator,  partook  in  varying  degrees  of  these  same 
characteristics;  and  there  at  the  table  sat  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams,  M.P.,  of  Ponteglwys,  one  of  his  eyes  aflow 
with  tears  of  sensibility  while  the  other  was  glued  to  the 
main  chance;  Baptist,  nationalist,  and  arguer  by  meta- 


104  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

phor  and  analogy ;  an  elocutionist,  and  a  maker  of  elocu- 
tionists by  that  process  of  education  that  consists  of  giv- 
ing a  scholar  a  subject  and  bidding  him  straightway 
speak  for  five  minutes  upon  it ;  and,  above  all,  ever  and 
again  suggesting,  by  slight  gesture  or  quick  glance,  that 
his  secret  thought  was  that  there,  in  cap  or  corduroys, 
but  for  the  Grace  of  God,  went  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  of 
Ponteglwys.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  put  up  his  hand,  refusing  to  eat  more. 

"  No  more,  no  more  indeed !  It  is  the  best  bread  and 
but-ter  I  have  tasted  since  I  was  here  before,  but  I 
should  be  ill  in  my  stomach. —  Dear  me,  John  Pritch- 
ard,  the  hap-py  hours  I  have  spent  in  this  room !  '  M id 
Pleas-sures  and  Palaces ' —  indeed  there  is  tears  in  my 
eyes  when  I  see  the  dres-ser  with  the  plates  on  it,  and 
the  jugs,  and  Mrs.  Prit-chard's  Bible  in  the  window,  just 
the  same  as  when  I  was  a  boy !  —  Well,  I  have  had  a 
splen-did  tea  at  all  events,  and  if  you  will  excuse  me  a 
min-nit  I  will  return  thanks  for  it.  ...  Now,  my 
friends ! " 

Five  minutes  later,  Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  not  so  near 
to  the  Kerrs'  Hafod  that  he  had  the  appearance  of 
specially  watching  it,  nor  yet  so  far  from  it  but  that 
he  could  see  Ned  Kerr  and  his  brother  Sam  setting  a 
rough  window-sash  into  position,  was  once  more  shaking 
hands  and  patting  shoulders  and  exchanging  greetings 
with  such  of  the  men  and  women  and  children  of  Llany- 
glo  as  he  had  not  yet  seen. 

And  now  that  they  had  got  him  there  they  hardly 
knew  what  they  wanted  of  him.  That  building  exploit 
of  the  Kerrs  having  thrust  the  Inclosures  Dispute  a 
good  deal  into  the  background,  and  Dafydd  Dafis's 
honourable  if  sullen  refusal  to  injure  men  who  had 
risked  their  lives  with  him  having  given  that  exploit 


THE  MEMBER  105 

Itself  a  kind  of  condonation,  it  seemed  as  if  their  Mem- 
ber had  merely  come  to  a  Sasiwn  after  all.  But  land 
had  changed  hands :  they  had  a  vague  sense  of  impend- 
ing change  and  of  the  discomfort  of  change;  and,  as 
they  answered  their  Member's  questions,  the  very  pres- 
ence in  their  midst  of  this  man  who  moved  behind  the 
scenes  of  the  drama  of  large  events  accentuated  this 
feeling. 

"  What  is  he  like,  this  one  ? "  Mr.  Tudor  Williams 
asked,  gently  yet  absent-mindedly  patting  big  John 
Pritchard's  back  as  he  stooped  to  cough.  They  had  been 
speaking  of  Terry  Armfield. 

They  described  Terry  as  he  had  appeared  to  them 
in  the  Court  at  Forth  JSTeigr. 

"  Is  he  taking  over  any  other  land  ? "  .  .  . 

You  would  not  have  supposed,  from  the  way  in  which 
Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  M.P.,  asked  the  question  that 
he  merely  sought  to  know  how  much  they  knew.  And 
it  had  not  occurred  to  Llanyglo  that  these  transfers  of 
land  might  be,  not  an  end,  but  only  a  beginning.  Yet 
Mr.  Tudor  Williams  had  good,  if  private  reasons,  for 
knowing  that  this  very  land  might  soon  be  more  than 
merely  worth  acquiring.  .  .  .  He  was  not  deceiving 
them.  It  pleased  them  to  think  that  their  Member  was 
the  repository  of  weighty  secrets,  and  he  was  merely 
indulging  this  simple  and  legitimate  liking.  IBut  al- 
ready he  intended  to  go  to  Liverpool  in  order  to  find 
out  what  this  Syndicate's  plans  really  were.  He 
wanted  to  know  whether  the  Syndicate,  in  its  turn,  was 
aware  of  something  else,  something  still  very  secret 
indeed,  so  secret  that  five  minutes  at  certain  keyholes 
might  have  been  worth  many  thousands  of  pounds.  .  .  . 

"  And  this  Haf od  Unos  —  on  whose  land  is  it  erect- 
ed ?  "  he  next  asked. 


106  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

He  made  a  little  grimace  when  they  told  him,  on 
Squire  Wynne's. 

"  Then  perhaps  he  will  let  it  stand ;  he  is  cracked 
in  his  head  about  old  customs,  and  antiquities,  and 
suchlike  foolishness,  when  there  is  great  work  wait-ing 
to  be  done.  It  is  not  our  business  if  he  likes  to  let 
these  people  squat  upon  his  land." 

But  here  John  Pritchard  interposed  heavily. 

"  But  it  is  our  business  if  they  sing  '  Thomas,  make 
Room  for  your  Uncle '  in  the  middle  of  prayers,"  he 
said. 

"  No-o-o !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  shocked. 
Perhaps  also  he  wished  to  gain  a  little  time ;  he  had  no 
wish  to  call  upon  Squire  Wynne,  either  about  this  or 
anything  else.  "  Don't  tell  me  they  did  that !  "  he 
added. 

"  Indeed,  they  did,"  said  John  quickly. 

"  Aw-w-w !  —  But  it  is  a  Liberal  maxim,  John,  and 
Radical,  too,  that  force  is  no  remedy.  In  my  opinion 
our  friend  Dafydd  here "  he  put  his  arm  affection- 
ately about  Dafydd  Dafis's  waist,  " —  was  a  lit-tle  head- 
strong about  burning  the  fences." 

"  I  will  not  burn  their  house,"  said  Dafydd  sullenly. 
(By  the  way,  had  the  case  been  altered,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  Kerrs  would  have  done  as  much  for  him. ) 

"  Well  —  we  can  always  take  what  the  doc-tor  told 
the  man  who  wanted  information  for  noth-thing  to  take 
—  advice,"  said  Mr.  Tudor  Williams. 

"  It  would  be  better  to  see  Mr.  Wynne  first,"  said 
John  Pritchard.  "  If  one  comes  others  may  come,  and 
indeed  I  never  saw  such  behaviour,  no,  not  in  a  den  of 
li-ons!" 

They  continued  to  discuss  the  matter,  while,  before 
their  eyes,  the  Kerrs  fitted  their  window-sash. 


THE  MEMBER  107 

Yet  it  was  curious  to  note  how,  within  the  bond 
of  their  passionate,  if  loquacious  nationalism,  each  man 
was  jealously  for  himself.  It  was  not  that  their  de- 
mocracy was  more  conspicuously  lacking  in  democrats 
than  are  other  democracies;  perhaps  it  was  rather  that 
the  Welshman  recognises  two  ties  and  two  ties  only  — 
the  tie  of  unity  against  the  foreigner,  and  the  private 
claim  of  his  strong  family  affections.  Between  these 
two  things  is  his  void  and  vulnerable  place.  He  has 
not  set  up  for  himself  the  Englishman's  stiff  and  service- 
able and  systematised  falsity  of  Compromise,  that  has 
no  justification  save  that  it  works.  He  has  his  age-long 
tradition,  but  no  daily  rule  that  can  (and  indeed  must) 
be  applied  without  question.  Each  of  his  acts  is  his 
first  act,  and  so  a  retail  act.  Because  his  hypocrisy 
lacks  the  magnificent  scope  of  that  of  the  Saxon,  he  bears 
the  odium  of  a  personal  stealthiness.  Thus,  perhaps,  it 
comes  about  that  while  too  strict  an  adherence  to  the 
letter  is  the  Englishman's  ever-present  danger,  for  his 
brother  Celt  the  spirit  slayeth.  Noble  dreams,  petty 
acts ;  and  here,  if  a  little  obscurely,  may  be  hidden  the 
reason  why,  when  he  seeks  his  fortune  in  London,  his 
greatest  successes  are  the  minor  successes  of  drapery 
and  milk.  .  .  . 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  at  last,  "  Wynne 
is  a  man  of  no  ideas.  He  is  only  a  pettifogging  country 
Squire,  whose  views  on  the  Land  Question  are  ob-solete 
in  tot-to.  But  if  he  harbours  men  that  are  a  nuisance, 
as  John  Pritchard  says,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I 
went  to  see  him " 

Nevertheless,  he  had  no  intention  whatever  of  doing 
so.  The  truth  was  that  the  Squire's  views  on  the  Land 
Question  were  too  obsolete  altogether.  They  were  so 
obsolete  that  he  had  sold  when  (as  first  Edward  Garden 


108  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

had  known,  and  now  Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  M.P.,  knew) 
he  ought  to  have  held;  and  it  was  for  Mr.  Tudor  Wil- 
liams to  profit  by  his  error  if  he  could,  rather  than  to 
call  his  attention  to  it.  He  was  very  far  from  being  a 
wealthy  man. 


VIII 

THELBMA 

BECAUSE  Terry  Armfield,  '6elieving  in  his  idea, 
would  not  have  abated  one  jot  of  it  for  all  the 
money  in  Liverpool,  therefore  he  got  all  the  money  he 
wanted.  This  —  alas !  —  is  not  optimism,  nor  a  hardy 
belief  that  merit  infallibly  meets  with  its  deserts  in 
this  world ;  it  merely  means  that  a  number  of  business- 
men with  rudimentary  consciences  were  willing  to  pay 
a  kind  of  hedging-premium  on  the  off-chance  of  being, 
after  all,  on  the  side  of  Terry  and  the  angels.  It  is 
astonishing  how  often  your  visionary  can  get  money 
out  of  your  man  of  affairs  when  another  man  of  affairs 
would  fail. 

And,  even  as  the  man  who  chatted  to  the  author  of 
the  Sixpenny  Guide  said,  Terry  was  only  a  few  years 
before  his  time.  The  things  he  dreamed  of  have  not 
come  to  pass  yet,  but  they  are  confidently  promised 
to-morrow.  As  happy  as  the  day  was  long,  he  was 
merely  setting  up  the  City  that  is  not  built  with  hands, 
and  lighting  it  with  the  Light  that  never  was.  And 
if  the  "  Thelema  Estate  Development  Company  "  had 
done  nothing  else,  it  did,  at  any  rate,  put  an  end  to 
that  dispute  that  had  begun  when  Dafydd  Dafis  had 
pulled  down  fences  and  burned  them  in  his  beautiful 
Red  Dragon  of  a  bonfire. 

But,  over  and  above  that,  it  did  leave  its  little  mark 
on  Llanyglo  —  a  fleeting  mark,  laughable,  bathetic, 

109 


110  MUSHROOM  TOWK 

sad,  tauntingly  vacant,  and  lunatic  (as  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams  would  have  said)  "  in  tot-to."  Come  to  that 
little  office  near  St.  George's  Hall,  Liverpool,  and  see 
Terry  Armfield  in  the  closing  stages  of  his  minding  of 
Llanyglo. 

He  not  only  conceived  his  Thelema;  he  drew  the 
plans  of  it  as  well.  He  drew  them  on  drawing-paper, 
on  tracing-paper,  on  note-paper  and  bill-heads  and  the 
backs  of  envelopes.  A  paper-weight,  with  a  knob  in 
the  shape  of  a  clenched  fist  grasping  a  short  staff,  kept 
half  a  hundred  of  his  hasty  drafts  from  flying  off  again 
into  the  air  that  gave  them  birth.  And  he  added  to 
them  day  by  day,  almost  hour  by  hour.  .  .  .  Forty 
or  forty-five  or  fifty  houses,  say,  each  with  its  little  plot 
for  private  meditation  and  repose,  yet  sharing  in  com- 
mon among  them  a  spacious  pleasaunce  where  friend 
should  meet  friend  and  none  but  friends  should  come  — 
that  was  the  idea.  A  fair  wide  Way,  with  the  moun- 
tains looking  down  its  perspective  to  where  gentle  steps 
led  down  to  the  tawny  sand  —  that  was  the  idea.  A 
wall  all  about  it,  or  a  ha-ha  perhaps,  not  as  against 
trespass,  but  as  a  symbol  that  here  was  an  Isle  that  the 
tides  of  the  care  and  of  the  trouble  of  the  world  did  not 
invade  —  a  shining  and  galleried  chamber  where  light 
and  happy  laughter  should  rise  to  the  groining  of  the 
roof  (dim  blue  with  gilt  stars),  and  should  echo  and 
linger  there  as  if  the  fane  itself  whispered  —  that  was 
the  idea.  None  of  it  existed,  none  of  it  was  ever  likely 
to  exist;  but  without  some  such  dreaming  our  life  on 
earth  is  little  worth.  The  people  who  put  up  the  real 
money  for  it  laughed  at  it,  and  laughed  at  Terry  when 
he  had  gone,  but  humoured  him  while  he  was  there  as  a 
nuisance,  but  a  gentle  one.  If  they  lost  their  money 
there  would,  at  any  rate,  be  a  good  many  of  them  in 


THELEMA  111 

company,  thp  land  was  exceedingly  cheap,  and  they 
need  not  begin  to  huild  upon  it  till  they  pleased.  Be- 
sides, by  taking  shares  in  his  Thelema  they  had  bought 
Terry  off.  When  he  came  with  his  other  wild  and  beau- 
tiful schemes  they  could  say,  "  No,  no,  Terry,  we'll  see 
how  Thelema  turns  out  first,"  and  pass  him  on  to  some- 
body else.  That  alone  was  worth  the  money. 

Then  there  came  to  Terry  one  day  a  man  who  not 
only  did  not  laugh  at  him,  but  grasped  him  by  the  hand, 
patted  him  all  up  the  arm  and  across  the  breast  as  if 
he  conferred  invisible  decorations  upon  him,  gave 
Thelema  his  blessing,  and  said,  in  moved  tones,  "  In- 
deed it  is  splen-did  —  splen-did  —  without  vis-ion  the 
people  perish-eth."  He  told  Terry  that  his  name  was 
Tudor  Williams,  and  that  he  was  the  parliamentary 
representative  of  the  constituency  a  portion  of  which 
Terry  and  the  gods  on  high  were  developing.  He  did 
not  ask  outright  for  anything.  He  told  Terry  that, 
while  he  himself  was  a  good  Radical,  believing  that 
God  made  the  land  for  the  people,  nevertheless,  in  this 
imperfect  world  things  had  to  be  done  a  lit-tle  at  a  time, 
and  his  principal  objection  to  the  (temporary)  private 
ownership  of  land  was  that  it  was  too  often  in  the  wrong 
hands.  If  it  could  be  put  into  the  right  hands  much  of 
the  ini-quit-ty  would  disappear,  whatever.  Then,  when 
he  came  to  inform  Terry  that  in  his  opinion  he  could 
be  of  great  use  to  the  Estate,  he  told  him  also  that  he 
was  far  from  being  a  wealthy  man,  and  that  his  useful- 
ness must  be  set  off  as  against  the  cost  of  any  interest 
Terry  might  think  fit  to  confer  upon  him.  .  .  ." 

"  Look  you,"  he  said,  "  the  conditions  of  labour  are 
peculiar,  and  things  that  would  be  easy  for  me  you  might 
find  a  lit-tle  diff-fi-cult.  I  do  not  say  you  would,  and 
indeed  I  am  a  good  democrat,  and  do  not  believe  in  one 


112  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

law  for  the  ritss  and  another  for  the  poor;  but  nowa- 
days, when  every  man  has  his  rights  and  his  vote  .  .  . 
well,  without  a  word  here  and  a  word  there  it  might  be  a 
lit-tle  diff-fi-cult.  .  .  ." 

And  Terry,  who  was  quite  acute  enough  to  see  this, 
asked  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  to  come  again. 

When  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  came  to  see  Terry  for 
the  third  time,  Terry  pressed  him  to  accept  a  seat  on 
the  Board.  But  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  put  up  a  deprecat- 
ing hand. 

"  Aw-w-w,  no !  "  he  said.  "  Indeed  it  is  very  good 
of  you,  and  I  am  very  pleased  you  show  so  much  confi- 
dence in  me,  but  it  would  not  do.  There  is  my  public 
position  to  consider.  Indeed  I  would  rather  have  a 
nominee.  It  is  hard  to  make  people  understand  a 
prop-per  motive.  If  the  time  was  ripe  for  it  I  would 
nationalise  all  land,  yes  indeed  I  would,  but  if  it  must 
be  privately  owned  for  a  lit-tle  while  longer  it  is  better 
that  it  should  be  in  the  trust  of  men  like  you  and  me  for 
the  public  good.  There  is  as  many  different  kinds  of 
landowning  as  there  is  of  landowners.  That  pet-ti-fog- 
ging  country  squire,  Wynne,  he  is  repre-sen-ta-tive  of 
all  that  is  worst  in  a  vic-ious  sys-tem ;  he  has  no  more 
vis-ion  than  that  chair  you  sit  on  now;  but  we  are  not. 
like  that.  I  have  not  often  found  a  sym-pathy  like 
yours ;  indeed  there  has  been  tears  in  my  eyes  while  you 
have  talked.  .  .  .  But  I  will  have  a  nominee.  It  will 
be  bet-ter.  And  I  will  see  you  get  your  labour.  There 
is  John  Jones,  Contractor,  Forth  K"eigr.  He  may  even 
be  willing  to  pay  a  lit-tle  commission.  We  shall  not 
quarrel  about  that. —  But  I  am  bet-ter  off  the  Board." 

Very  curiously,  he  was  not  the  only  one  who  seemed 
a  little  shy  about  being  put  on  the  Board.  Others  dis- 
played an  equal  bashfulness.  This  puzzled  Terry. 


THELEMA  113 

Btit  it  never  puzzled  him  for  long  at  a  time.  Always  a 
fresh  inspiration  sent  him  off  into  his  cloudland  again. 
It  was  about  that  time  that  he  acquired  his  second  slice 
of  Llanyglo,  a  tract  adjoining  the  first  and  running 
down  to  that  shore  that  Copley  Fielding  depicted  with 
such  accomplishment,  elegance,  and  taste.  And  he  took 
with  that  second  piece  of  land  a  responsibility  greater 
than  that  he  had  assumed  when  he  had  merely  cajoled 
money  out  of  the  pockets  of  men  who  had  known  his 
tea-clipping  father  and  whose  fathers  had  known  his 
privateering  great-grandfather.  Briefly,  by  enlarging 
his  enterprise,  Terry  threw  away  the  immediate  advan- 
tage of  his  personal  idealism  and  charm.  The  thing 
went  to  allotment  shorn  of  his  peculiar  magnetism.  He 
received  money  that  would  not,  merely  on  the  score  that 
they  liked  him,  be  indulgently  written  off  by  those  who 
would  see  that  money  no  more. 

His  Prospectus  is  extant.  Edward  Garden's  unfin- 
ished house  came  into  it,  and  an  affiliated  interest, 
"Forth  Neigr  Omnibuses,  Ltd."  about  which  Mr. 
Tudor  Williams  knew  something.  There  were  great 
swathes  about  the  natural  beauties  of  the  situation,  and 
lesser  ones  (the  Syndicate  pruned  them  down  behind 
Terry's  back)  about  the  Thelema  Idea.  And  there  were 
a  number  of  other  things  that  are  impossible,  yet  facts 
in  the  amazing  History  of  Flotation.  It  is  no  good 
saying  these  things  cannot  happen  when  they  happen 
daily.  Had  you  or  I  bought  shares  in  the  "  Thelema 
Estate  Development  Company,  Limited,"  we  should 
merely  have  bought,  you  and  I,  shares  in  that  moonshine 
that  poor,  gentle,  rapturous,  cat's-paw  Terry  Armfield 
drew  with  freehand  and  French  curves  on  his  bits  of 
paper  and  presently  spread  out  in  such  a  lunatic  fashion 
over  the  sandhills  of  Llanyglo.  Come,  before  we  leave 


114  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

this  dim  chapter  of  the  twilight  of  Llanyglo's  forebe- 
ing,  and  see  what  Terry  did. 

Starting  at  right  angles  from  the  Forth  ISTeigr  road, 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards  short  of  John  Pritchard's 
farm,  there  runs  straight  down  to  the  shore  a  street  of 
rather  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length.  Cross- 
ing this  street  in  the  middle  runs  another  street,  not  so 
long,  but  unfinished.  These  two  streets  intersect  in  an 
open  space  or  circus  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  in 
diameter.  The  first  street  is  called  Delyn  Avenue,  be- 
cause of  the  mountain  that  commands  it.  The  second 
one  is  called  Trwyn  Way.  The  central  circus  is  called 
by  the  names  of  the  four  Crescents  it  comprises. 
Farther  back  from  the  intersecting  points  are  other 
streets.  They  also  are  named. 

But  do  not  suppose  that  these  streets  and  Crescents 
and  Avenues  and  Ways  are  streets  in  any  ordinary 
sense.  They  are  twenty-two  and  thirty-five  foot  roads, 
metalled,  crowned,  drained,  and  with  a  good  stone  kerb 
running  parallel  on  either  side.  But  there  are  no 
houses.  There  is  not  even  a  pavement,  no,  not  a  vestige 
of  one,  flagged,  macadamed,  cobbled,  nor  of  any  other 
description.  There  are  no  standards  for  gas  or  electric 
light ;  there  are  no  standards  even  for  the  names  of  the 
thoroughfares  —  for  you  can  hardly  call  those  things 
standards  —  those  low  wooden  boards,  rather  like  the 
"  Please  Keep  off  the  Grass  "  notices  in  a  public  park, 
that  inform  you  that  this  is  Delyn  Avenue  or  that  that 
is  Trwyn  Way.  Exactly  as  it  was  all  drawn  on  Terry 
Armfield's  tracing-paper  and  envelopes  and  memo-heads, 
so  it  is  now  drawn  on  the  Llanyglo  sandhills,  with  strips 
of  stone  kerbing  for  pencil  lines  and  the  wind-blown 
sand  where  his  india-rubber  has  passed.  Lie  down  on 
the  sandhills  with  your  eyes  at  the  level  of  the  kerbs, 


THELEMA  115 

and,  save  for  those  eighteen-inch-high  street  name-boards, 
all  disappears.  Or  if  you  care  to  climb  the  Trwyn  you 
can  see  it  all  rather  well  from  there.  .  .  . 

There  you  are.  Just  a  little  patch  of  strapwork  in 
the  middle  of  the  waste.  Or  like  a  rather  large  gridiron 
somebody  has  thrown  away.  And,  if  you  are  capable  of 
seeing  what  Terry  saw,  namely  all  the  things  that  are 
not  there  and  that  never  will  be  there,  then  that  little 
grid  of  laid-down  and  abandoned  streets  has  a  curiously 
mocking  effect.  You  imagine  the  ghosts  of  Terry's 
Thelemites  moving  noiselessly  there,  passing  to  and  from 
their  non-existent  habitations.  They  are  going,  friendly 
ghost  taking  friendly  ghost  by  the  hand,  to  that  groined 
and  lofty  chamber  of  Terry's  dream,  where  the  faint 
echoes  of  laughter  linger  in  the  roof  of  dim  blue  with 
gilt  stars.  They  are  going  to  walk  in  Terry's  closes  and 
courts  and  arbours,  happy  in  that  the  sorrows  and  pains 
and  substantialities  of  the  world  touch  them  not  in  their 
retreat.  They  are  going  down  Delyn  Avenue,  to  where 
the  broad  and  gentle  steps  descend  to  the  yellow  shore. 
And  all  about  them,  but  only  to  be  seen  if  you  can  see 
what  Terry  saw  (otherwise  you  will  see  only  the  sand 
and  the  wild  thyme  and  the  sulphur  butterflies  and  the 
blue),  are  Calaer  and  Anatole,  Griere  and  Hesperia, 
Mesembrine  and  Arctic,  which  are  the  six  towers  of  that 
Place  with  the  great  gate  where  bigots  and  hypocrites 
and  defrauded  and  whining  shareholders  enter  not,  nor 
the  violent  Huns  of  the  world  of  business  nor  the  cruel 
Ostrogoths  of  commerce,  but  only  the  spruce  and  noble 
devotees  of  the  Best,  the  Terrys  before  their  time. 

But  when  the  wind  gets  up,  then  the  sand  blows  over 
it  all,  and  John  Pritchard  or  somebody  else,  catching 
his  foot  against  the  unseen  kerb,  comes  down  his  length 
into  the  middle  of  Terry's  lovely  and  desired  Place. 


116  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

But  the  men  and  women  of  Llanyglo  are  beginning  to 
know  their  way  about  this  phantom  town,  and  none 
other,  save  the  Gardens  (whose  house  is  now  finished), 
and  a  friend  or  so  of  the  Gardens'  in  the  summer,  ever 
comes  there.  The  Kerrs,  however,  still  have  their 
Hafod,  which  they  inhabit  together  when  they  are  not 
away  buying  and  cutting  alders  and  shaping  them  into 
clog-soles  with  the  free-hinged  knife  in  the  little  canvas 
hut.  And  among  the  business-men  of  Liverpool  the 
whole  thing  is  still  a  rich  joke. — "  Well,  have  you  started 
building  that  house  of  yours  in  Wales  yet  ?  "  a  man  who 
has  not  bought  will  ask  a  man  who  did ;  and  this  one  will 
reply,  "  Oh,  I'm  thinking  about  it,"  or,  "  You  must  come 
down  there  and  stop  with  me,"  or  some  other  put-off. 
And  it  was  rich  in  the  extreme  when,  one  day,  the  man 
at  whose  expense  the  joke  was  made  took  the  jester  by 
the  button,  smiled,  and  whispered  something  confi- 
dential. .  .  .  "What!"  gasped  the  jester.  "You've 
sold!  .  .  .  Wherever  did  you  find  him?  In  Manches- 
ter ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Splendid !  That's  a  dig  in  the  ribs 
for  Manchester !  —  I  should  like  to  see  his  face  when  he 
sees  it !  ...  A  pity  about  poor  Armfield,  though  —  he'll 

catch  snuff " 

For  Terry  had  been  refused  bail. 


PAET  TWO 


RAIX,HE.AJ> 

BUT  something  was  coming  to  Llanyglo. 
As  Edward  Garden  might  have  said,  looking  at 
this  something  under  his  glasses  and  over  his  glasses  as 
it  crept  slowly  up  out  of  the  east  —  as  Edward  Garden 
might  have  said,  looking  at  it  again  and  yet  again,  and 
then  gazing  mildly  and  mistrustfully  through  the  glasses 
at  you,  it  appeared  to  be  a  railway. 

At  any  rate,  if  it  was  not  coming  to  Llanyglo  it  was 
coming  within  three  miles  of  it. 

As  if  a  snail  should  leave  behind  it  a  track,  not  01 
slime,  but  of  new  iron,  grey  at  first,  then  red  with  rust, 
but  soon  to  be  bright  again,  so  it  came  on ;  and  in  other 
respects  also  it  resembled  a  snail.  It  carried,  for  ex- 
ample, its  lodging  with  it.  And  it  put  forward  sensitive 
and  intelligent  antennse  as  it  sought  its  food  thirty 
miles  away  down  the  coast  —  manganese.  It  left  the 
junction  half  a  mile  beyond  Forth  K"eigr,  and  it  was 
going  to  Abercelyn. 

The  lodging  that  the  snail  carried  with  it  was  called 
Railhead.  Seen  from  a  distance  of  a  couple  of  miles 
it  resembled  a  small  excoriation  on  the  face  of  the  land ; 
seen  nearer  it  resolved  itself  into  a  town  of  wood  and 
corrugated  iron,  with  stockades  of  creosoted  sleepers  and 
trenches  of  earth  and  ramparts  of  ballast  and  metal  for 

117 


118  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

the  laying  of  the  permanent  way.  There  were  superin- 
tendents' offices  and  the  sheds  of  clerks  of  works ;  there 
were  forges  and  stables  and  strings  of  waggons  and  a 
telegraph  cabin;  there  were  huts  and  pumping-stations 
and  cranes,  stationary  and  travelling,  and  a  gas-plant; 
and  there  were  watchmen's  boxes  and  the  temporary 
dwellings  of  hundreds  of  men.  By  day  these  could  be 
seen,  spread  out  on  the  level  or  clustering  about  the  em- 
bankments as  the  flies  clustered  about  the  treacled  strings 
and  fly-papers  Howell  Gruffydd  hung  up  in  his  shop 
in  Llanyglo;  at  night  the  oncoming  snail  seemed  phos- 
phorescent, its  phosphorescence  the  flares  and  fires  and 
lamps  in  cabin-~windows  and  red  eyes  for  danger  that 
appeared  when  the  other  shift  took  over  the  work  from 
the  men  of  the  day.  Whistle  of  construction-engine 
and  roar  of  dynamite  cartridge ;  hiss  of  steam  and  clang 
of  hammers  as  they  fished  the  joints;  rattle  of  road- 
metal  as  it  was  shot  from  the  carts,  and  thud  of  the 
paviors'  rammers;  clank  of  couplings  and  agonised 
scream  of  a  circular  saw ;  purr  of  telephone-bells  and  the 
"  Hallo !  "  as  the  clerk  took  down  the  receiver ;  sough 
of  pumps  and  bubbling  of  cauldrons  of  tar;  cries  to 
horses,  slish  and  slap  of  mortar  and  the  clinking  of  the 
trowels ;  spitting  of  dinners  cooking  over  the  firebaskets, 
sounds  of  singing  at  night;  with  these  and  a  hundred 
other  noises  the  snail  crept  on  with  a  spirit-level  inside 
him  —  the  level  that  kept  him  true  to  the  line  that  had 
been  laid  down  by  staff  and  chain  and  theodolite  a  couple 
of  years  before. 

And  in  some  respects  that  something  that  looked  so 
very  much  like  a  railway  resembled  not  so  much  a  snail 
as  a  snake.  Did  you  ever  see  the  great  python  that  died 
lately  at  the  Zoo  climb  his  ragged  staff  of  a  tree  ?  Not  a 
joint  or  section  of  him  but  seemed  to  have  that  separate 


RAILHEAD  119 

life  of  each  of  Dafydd  Dafis's  fingers  when  he  mourned 
over  his  harp.  A  yard,  two  yards  of  the  gorgeous  waist- 
thick  creature  would  ripple  and  flow  and  roll  upwards 
to  the  crutch  of  the  stump ;  another  yard  would  follow, 
piling  ever  up  and  up ;  and  you  would  wait  for  the  top- 
pling over  of  the  great  golden  reticulated  cable.  And 
then  all  motion  in  that  portion  of  the  great  fake  would 
suddenly  cease.  Beyond  the  stump  you  would  become 
aware  that  another  glittering  section  was  a-crawl,  bal- 
ancing, making  fast,  ever  continuing  the  ascent.  .  .  . 
Even  so,  before  and  behind  Railhead, .  the  work  pro- 
gressed. At  a  point  the  construction-engine  stopped, 
the  regiment  of  red  and  blue  shirts  and  wondrous  fore- 
arms and  corduroy  would  move  off,  and  presently  all  the 
life  of  the  line  would  be  five  miles  ahead,  where  they  dug 
and  built  and  drained  and  by  and  by  passed  back  the 
word  that  all  was  well.  S'o  they  moved,'  between  the  fin- 
ished and  tested  line  at  one  point  and  the  warning  bell 
and  the  dynamite  stick  at  the  other;  and  there  was  an 
end  of  much  gorse  and  heath  and  of  many  banks  of  flow- 
ering campion  and  hassocks  of  wild  thyme. 

And,  for  all  this  snail  with  its  iron  slime  was  not 
passing  within  three  miles  of  Llanyglo,  it  was  bringing 
the  hamlet's  appointed  destiny  with  it.  It  was  bring- 
ing (though,  to  be  sure,  not  for  some  years  yet)  a  pas- 
senger-junction where  yet  only  irises  and  bog-cotton  grew 
and  frogs  boomed  out  over  the  marsh  at  night.  It  was 
bringing  sidings  where  John  Pritchard's  farthest  field 
of  oats  now  rippled  silver-green  in  the  wind.  It  was 
bringing  a  goods-yard  and  signal-bridges,  and  sheds  and 
platforms  and  turntables  and  a  cabrank  in  front  and 
rows  of  railwaymen's  dwellings  behind.  It  was  bring- 
ing a  different  breed  of  men,  a  breed  that  so  far  Llanyglo 
knows  only  in  the  persons  of  the  four  Kerrs.  More  than 


120  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

this,  it  was  bringing  progress,  and  sophistication,  and 
wealth  for  some  but  nothing  for  others,  and  jollity,  and 
vice,  and  some  knowledge  that  was  good  and  some  that 
Llanyglo  would  have  been  no  worse  without,  and 
always  loads,  loads,  trainloads  of  white-faced  people 
from  the  smoky  towns.  And  most  of  all  it  was  bringing 
to  that  vague  yet  unmistakable  town-soul  of  Llanyglo 
growth  and  experience,  growth  that  it  could  not  escape 
and  experience  that  it  must  square  with  those  num- 
bered days  of  its  idyllic  nonage  as  best  it  can.  Through 
growing-pains  and  wild-oats,  through  revulsions  of  young 
remorse  and  impossible  panaceas  of  repentance,  through 
shrugging  worldliness  and  cynicism  and  the  forgetful- 
ness  that  lies  in  laughter,  Llanyglo  must  pass  before  it 
becomes  —  whatever  it  is  to  be.  One  thing  only  is 
certain:  it  can  never  again  be  as  it  was  when  Edward 
Garden  first  went  there.  Its  wild  thyme  will  remain 
only  in  patches  on  its  Trwyn,  and  its  sandhills  will  be 
glaucous  with  the  blue  sea-holly  no  more.  The  black 
cattle  have  not  much  longer  in  which  to  pace  its  shore, 
and  Terry  Armfield's  gridiron  will  be  forgotten  —  no 
Sixpenny  Guide  will  point  the  way  down  Delyn  Avenue 
nor  past  his  immaterial  Crescents  along  Trwyn  Way. 
Railhead  is  creeping  on.  Two  of  the  Kerrs  are  already 
working  there,  the  other  two  have  just  bought  the  last 
of  Squire  Wynne's  alders.  Squire  Wynne  has  now  no 
land  except  that  occupied  by  the  Plas  and  its  tangled 
and  mossy  and  grassy  and  neglected  gardens.  "  Forth 
Neigr  Omnibuses,  Limited,"  is  already  a  serious  under- 
taking, for  it  will  ply  between  Llanyglo  and  the  nearest 
point  of  the  line.  Howell  Gruffydd  has  an  option  on  the 
two  original  cottages  that  Edward  Garden  had  had 
matchboarded  —  he  may  soon  be  requiring  a  larger  shop. 
Compensations  will  be  paid  right  and  left.  And  there 


RAILHEAD  121 

will  soon  be  a  larger  assortment  of  young  men  for  Miss 
Nancy  Pritchard  to  choose  a  husband  from.  .  .  . 
For  something  is  coming  to  Llanyglo. 

Mr.  Tudor  Williams  Ponteglwys  had  been  clever 
enough  in  the  matter  of  the  Omnibuses,  Limited,  nor, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  had  his  cleverness  stopped  there ; 
but  for  astuteness  he  could  not  hold  a  candle  to  Edward 
Garden.  Edward  Garden  was  not  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment. As  he  musingly  said  when  people  asked  him  why 
he  was  not,  it  was  out  of  his  line.  Therefore,  he  and  his 
friends  had  left  to  others  the  promotion  of  the  Bill,  its 
steering  through  Select  Committees  of  both  Houses,  and 
the  whole  conduct  of  the  negotiations  that,  in  their  dif- 
ferent way,  were  no  less  complicated  than  that  concen- 
tration of  various  forces  by  virtue  of  which  Railhead 
crept  ever  slowly  forward.  To  a  regiment  of  lawyers 
had  likewise  been  left  the  adjustments  under  the  general 
Acts  to  which,  on  the  passing  of  the  Bill,  the  enterprise 
had  become  subject.  Members  and  lawyers  alike,  those 
drest  in  a  little  brief  obedience  to  the  commands  of  the 
party  whips,  these  as  often  as  not  Members  themselves, 
were  virtually  the  nominees  of  Edward  Garden  and  his 
friends.  Politics  Edward  Garden's  "  line  " ?  .  .  .  To 
all  outward  appearances  he  had  no  "  line  "  at  all.  He 
merely  added  another  emblem  to  that  little  cluster  of 
Mercuries  and  Greyhounds  and  Winged  Orbs  that 
formed  the  pendant  of  his  watch-chain.  It  was  only 
when  others,  full  of  plans  and  hope  and  secrecy, 
sought  "  lines "  for  themselves  that  they  discovered 
that  he  had  been  beforehand  with  them.  To  give  an 
instance:  When  Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  M.P.,  appar- 
ently as  representing  somebody  else,  had  come  forward 
with  an  offer  to  take  up  the  remnants  of  poor  Terry's 


122  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Thelema,  he  had  found  there  were  no  remnants  to  take 
up.  To  give  another  instance:  When,  by  carefully 
engineered  good  offices  and  intermediaries,  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams  had  sought  a  reconciliation  with  Squire 
Wynne,  and  presently  had  gone-  to  see  him,  he  had 
found  that  he  had  pocketed  his  pride  for  nothing  —  the 
Squire  no  longer  had  a  yard  of  land  to  sell.  In  a  word, 
before  ever  whispers  of  the  Bill  had  begun  to  circulate 
in  the  lobbies  of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  sandhills 
and  oat-fields  of  Llanyglo  had  been  cut  up  like  a  jigsaw 
puzzle,  raffled,  dealt  in,  apportioned,  and  owned;  and, 
save  for  his  small  holding  in  Thelema,  between  the 
Omnibuses  at  Forth  Neigr  and  manganese  at  Aberce- 
lyn,  there  were  very  few  pickings  for  Mr.  Tudor  Wil- 
liams of  Ponteglwys. 

Therefore  he  returned  with  an  enthusiasm  more 
ardent  than  ever  to  his  original  crusade  against  the 
private  ownership  of  the  land  that  God  made  for  the 
people,  and  took  his  constituents  by  the  button-holes, 
and  spoke  darkly  of  other  Acts  —  Acts  which  by  and 
by  should  give  the  Local  Authority  powers  of  compul- 
sory purchase. 

And  all  this  time  the  eye  still  saw  nothing  to  pur- 
chase but  bents  and  blown  sand,  blue  and  lemon  butter- 
flies, nodding  harebells,  a  few  tidemarks  of  black  sea- 
weed, a  wooden  jetty,  a  cluster  of  thatched  kerb,  the 
three  Chapels,  Edward  Garden's  house,  and  Ty  Kerr. 

But  something  was  coming  to  Llanyglo. 

On  the  whole  they  did  not  talk  very  much  about  it. 
Each  had  his  reason  for  reticence,  or  brooding,  or 
resentment,  or  calculation,  as  the  case  might  be.  Nev- 
ertheless, with  Railhead  still  many  miles  away,  they 
began  to  become  accustomed  to  the  coming  and  going 


RAILHEAD  123 

of  strangers.  They  came,  these  strangers,  to  Edward 
Garden's  house,  sleeping  either  there  or  else  at  the 
double  cottage  down  by  the  beach;  Edward  Garden 
himself,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  saw  them  hos- 
pitably over  the  sandhills  to  bed.  They  were  survey- 
ors and  architects,  accountants,  geologists,  prospectors, 
men  in  control  of  the  snail  that  left  the  track  of  iron 
and  grey  ballast  and  upturned  clay  across  the  land, 
lawyers,  conveyancers,  the  directors  of  the  stone- 
quarries  along  the  Forth  Neigr  road,  and  others  at 
whose  business  Llanyglo  could  only  guess.  And  Mr. 
Tudor  Williams  also  went  there,  perhaps  to  talk  about 
compulsory  powers.  These  and  others  wandered  in 
groups  along  the  straggling  lines  of  seaweed,  and  up 
the  Trwyn,  and  far  inland  behind  John  Pritchard's 
farm,  pointing,  pacing,  discussing,  exactly  as  those 
minions  of  the  Liverpool  Syndicate  had  done  that 
morning  when  work  had  suddenly  ceased  on  Edward 
Garden's  new  house;  but  there  was  no  talk  of  fence- 
burning  now.  Even  Dafydd  Dafis  saw  the  hopeless- 
ness of  it,  and  once  more  went  about  with  his  head 
bowed  like  a  head  of  corn  heavy  with  rain.  Already 
men  were  widening  and  levelling  the  Forth  Neigr  road. 
One  week-end  in  July,  after  an  unusually  large  gather- 
ing at  Edward  Garden's  house,  a  new  waggonette  from 
Forth  Neigr  came  to  take  them  back  in  a  body.  It 
had  a  pair  of  horses,  and  it  took  the  hills  in  style. 
Dafydd  Dafis,  whom  the  vehicle  overtook  on  his  ten 
miles'  trudge  into  the  town,  was  offered  a  seat,  but 
he  appeared  not  to  hear,  and  the  vehicle  drove  on,  en- 
veloping him  in  its  dust.  Half-way  to  Forth  Neigr 
he  came  upon  a  squad  of  men  setting  up  a  telegraph 
pole.  One  of  them  spoke  to  him,  in  English.  "  Dim 
Saesneg,"  he  muttered,  and  then  perhaps  wondered  why 


124  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

he  had  done  so.  It  might  be  "  Dim  Cymraeg  "  pres- 
ently. A  little  farther  on  the  waggonette  passed  him 
again,  once  more  hiding  him  in  its  dust.  No  doubt  it 
had  turned  aside  up  the  rough  road  that  led  to  the  stone- 
quarries.  Dafydd  continued  his  trudge. 

But  in  the  household  of  Howell  Gruffydd  the  grocer, 
a  suppressed  excitement  reigned.  This,  when  Dafydd 
Dafis  happened  to  be  there,  showed  only  as  resignation 
and  a  bowing  to  the  inevitable;  but  at  other  times  it 
seemed  to  confer  a  more  frequent  glitter  to  Howell's 
teeth,  a  new  impulse  to  his  jocularity,  and  a  sparkle 
and  sharpness  to  his  wife's  eyes.  Cases  and  canisters 
the  like  of  which  he  had  never  handled  before  were  de- 
livered at  his  door  by  the  Forth  Neigr  carrier;  these 
were  for  the  consumption  of  Edward  Garden  and  his 
guests;  and  he  waited  in  person  upon  Mrs.  Garden 
every  Monday  morning.  He  thought  of  having  a 
Christmas  almanack  with  his  own  name  printed  upon 
it.  Blodwen,  his  wife,  made  him,  in  anticipation,  a 
pair  of  linen  half -sleeves  that  drew  up  over  his  fore- 
arms. Eesaac  Oliver  was  forbidden  any  longer  to 
fetch  the  eggs  from  the  light-keeper's  wife  up  the 
Trwyn ;  one  of  Hugh  Morgan's  boys  might  do  this.  As 
a  preparation  for  Aberystwith,  Eesaac  Oliver  was 
packed  off  to  a  second  cousin  of  Blodwen's  at  Forth 
Neigr,  there  to  attend  an  excellent  endowed  school. 
With  the  railway  passing  so  near  it  would  be  a  simple 
matter  for  him  to  spend  his  week-ends  at  Llanyglo. 

And  big  consumptive  John  Pritchard  rarely  said  a 
word  about  that  onward-creeping  snail  that  left  its 
double  thread  of  permanent  track  behind  it,  but  he 
thought  exaltedly  and  powerfully.  Stories  had  already 
reached  him  of  drunkenness  at  Railhead,  and  fights, 
and  singing  at  nights,  and  other  godless  orgies,  and 


RAILHEAD  125 

his  brow  was  sternly  set.  When  he  preached  at  the 
Baptist  Chapel  about  such  as  loved  darkness  and  the 
evil  paths  in  which  they  walked,  it  was  known  that  he 
was  thinking  of  Railhead.  Men  were  now  plotting 
their  levels  almost  within  sight  of  Llanyglo.  They 
turned  their  surveying  instruments  on  the  hamlet  as  if 
they  had  been  guns,  and  laid  out  their  chains  as  if  they 
had  been  enslaving  the  soil  itself.  Then  an  advance 
gang  approached,  and,  even  while  John  knew  that  the 
end  was  near  (but  not  so  near  as  all  that),  that  end 
came.  Eight  men  marched  one  evening  into  Llanyglo, 
bawling  a  bawdy  chorus,  with  Sam  Kerr  showing  the 
way.  They  had  bottles  and  piggins  and  stone  jars  of 
beer,  and,  slung  with  joined-up  leather  belts  between 
two  of  them,  swung  a  barrel.  They  stumbled  through 
the  loose  sand  towards  the  Hafod  Unos,  hiccoughing 
and  polluting  the  peaceful  evening.  Ned  Kerr  had 
evidently  been  advised  of  their  coming ;  he  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  Hafod  to  receive  them;  and  the  carousing 
began.  ...  It  lasted  half  the  night,  and  then  each 
clay-stained  navvy  and  tattooed  platelayer  slept  and 
snored  where  he  fell.  John  Pritchard  did  not  sleep. 
Faintly  he  could  hear  their  singing  where  he  lay.  The 
red  and  white  of  the  Trwyn  light  dyed  the  darkness 
overhead.  John  remembered  his  own  words :  "  It  is 

a  den  of  li-ons " 

Something  had  already  come  to  Llanyglo. 


II 

THE  C:LEB,K  OF  THE  WOEKS 

JOHN  WILLIE  GARDEN  was  by  this  time  at  the 
age  when  he  occasionally  washed  himself  with- 
out being  told.  This  he  probably  did,  not  out  of  any 
great  love  of  cleanliness,  but  because  by  washing  un- 
bidden he  acquired  the  right  to  retort,  when  the  order 
to  wash  came,  "  I  have  —  there !  "  Did  one  of  the 
maids  give  the  order  he  might  add  the  word  "  Sucks !  " 
This  word  he  withheld  when  the  command  came  from 
his  mother. 

He  was  still  at  school  at  Pannal,  but  ardently  longed 
to  leave.  It  was  intended  that  sooner  or  later  he  should 
go  into  business  with  his  father,  and  during  the  past 
Christmas  vacation,  which  the  Gardens  had  spent  at 
home  in  Manchester,  he  had  had  the  run  of  the  offices 
and  spinning-sheds.  His  real  education,  as  distinct 
from  his  scholastic  one,  had  been  immensely  advanced 
thereby.  This  real  advance  had  taken  place  principally 
after  working  hours.  In  such  cases  there  is  usually  a 
young  clerk  or  market-man  ready  to  take  the  son  of  the 
firm  into  his  charge,  and  a  certain  Jack  Webster  had 
had  the  bringing  of  John  Willie  out.  This  he  had 
done  at  football  matches,  in  the  dressing-rooms  where 
the  titans  clad  themselves  for  the  fray,  and  at  their 
sing-songs  and  smokers  afterwards.  Therefore,  John 
Willie  esteemed  himself  a  boy  of  the  world,  and  al- 
ready the  day  seemed  far  distant  when  he  had  shot  the 

126 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WORKS          127 

Llanyglo  rabbits  with  his  bow  and  arrow,  and  had 
buried  a  sixpence  beneath  the  date-stone  of  his  father's 
house. 

To  Llanyglo  John  Willie  went  again  that  summer, 
as  the  snail  crept  forward  yard  by  yard  to  Abercelyn 
and  the  manganese. 

All  things  considered,  you  might  have  been  par- 
doned had  you  supposed  that,  without  John  Willie,  the 
work  at  Railhead  must  have  come  to  a  stop.  Had  you 
wished  to  know  anything  about  that  railway  —  its  cost 
per  mile,  its  contractors'  time-limits  and  penalties,  its 
wages  bills,  its  estimated  upkeep  —  you  would  have 
gone,  not  to  those  men  who  spent  week-ends  at  Edward 
Garden's  house,  but  to  John  Willie.  Railhead  was  now 
to  him  what  the  building  of  the  Llanyglo  house  had 
formerly  been,  and  the  fence-burning,  and  rugby  foot- 
ball, and  many  another  interest  of  the  days  when  he 
had  been  a  kid  and  immature.  It  was  in  the  summer 
of  1884  that  the  snail's  antennae  approached  within 
sight  of  Llanyglo,  and,  rain  or  shine,  permitted  or  for- 
bidden, John  Willie  spent  most  of  his  waking  hours 
among  the  masons  and  smiths  and  navvies  and  plate- 
layers who  formed  the  population  of  that  nomad  town 
of  wood  and  earth  and  sleepers  and  rolling  stock  and 
escaping  steam  and  corrugated  iron.  He  knew  half 
the  men  by  name.  He  joined  them  at  dinner  when 
the  great  buzzer  told  half  a  county  that  it  was  half -past 
twelve.  He  knitted  his  brows  over  the  curling  and 
thumb-marked  plans  in  the  foremen's  cabins.  He 
passed  this  section  of  work  or  that,  and  gave  the  other 
his  imprimatur.  He  adapted  his  stride  to  the  dis- 
tance between  sleeper  and  sleeper.  He  spat  reflectively 
on  heaps  of  clay  and  mortar.  With  his  hands,  not  in 
his  pockets,  but  thrust  (in  imitation  of  the  labourers 


128  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

with  the  "  drop-front "  corduroys)  deep  into  his  waist- 
band, and  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  yellow,  thistle- 
down head,  he  gave  off-hand  nods  of  greeting  and  warn- 
ing "  Steadys."  He  was  variously  known  as  "  t'  gaf- 
fer," "  t'  ganger,"  "  t'  clerk  o'  t'  works,"  and  "  t'  fore- 
man." 

And  his  friend,  Percy  Briggs,  of  Pannal  School  and 
Roundhay  (where  his  father  was  an  architect)  accom- 
panied him.  Percy's  father  was  one  of  Edward  Gar- 
den's week-enders.  He  was  making  the  plans  of  a 
second  house,  not  far  from  where  Terry  Armfield's 
Thelemites  were  to  have  descended  the  shallow,  marble 
steps  to  the  golden  shore.  There  was  also  some  talk 
of  an  hotel. 

For  by  this  time  quite  a  number  of  people  knew  at 
least  the  name  of  Llanyglo,  and  there  is  very  little 
doubt  that,  had  the  place  but  had  houses,  it  might  even 
then  have  been  that  within  another  three  or  four  years 
it  actually  had  become  —  a  quiet  but  not  inaccessible 
resort,  with  perhaps  a  dozen  striped  bathing-tents  and 
a  row  or  two  of  deck-chairs  drawn  up  on  its  beach,  a 
couple  of  comfortable  hydros  established  and  a  large 
new  hotel  a-building,  a  few  donkeys  (but  no  niggers 
nor  pierrots),  a  place  for  children  and  for  such  of  their 
elders  as  sought  a  quiet  not  to  be  found  at  Blackpool 
nor  the  Isle  of  Man,  a  spot  unvisited  by  trippers, 
"  select,"  a  little  on  the  expensive  side,  where  an  ac- 
quaintance struck  up  between  families  might  without 
too  much  risk  be  improved  afterwards,  where  the 
nurses  would  be  uniformed  and  the  luggage  would  be 
sent  on  in  advance,  where  a  wealthy  patron  might  even 
build  a  house  of  his  own  (if  he  could  get  the  land),  a 
"  nice  "  place,  a  place  you  could  afterwards  tell  any- 
body you  had  been  to,  a  place  from  which  you  would  go 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WOEKS          12.9 

back  feeling  well  and  not  in  need  of  another  holiday, 
a  place  —  in  short,  a  place  like  So-and-So,  or  So-and- 
So,  out  of  which  we  try  to  shut  history  and  change  by 
being  a  little  jealously  secret  about  them.  Llanyglo 
might  have  been,  and  for  a  short  time  actually  was, 
such  a  place ;  and  Percy  Briggs's  father,  with  others  to 
tell  him  what  to  do  and  what  not  to  do,  was  even  now 
in  the  act  of  planning  how  to  make  it  so. 

In  the  meantime,  Edward  Garden's  own  house  was 
a  very  different  place  from  those  two  cottages  that 
Dafydd  Dafis  had  taken  his  own  good  time  about  match- 
boarding.  That  first  lodging  had  been  no  more  than 
a  temporary  camping-place  for  the  summer.  Any  sag- 
ging old  wicker-chairs  or  tables  or  chests  of  drawers 
from  lumber-rooms  had  been  good  enough  for  it,  and 
its  crockery  and  kitchen  appointments  had  been  of  the 
cheapest  kind  that  Forth  Keigr  could  supply.  But 
not  so  with  the  new  house.  Everything  about  it  spoke 
of  permanence.  The  large  plate-box  was  carried  back- 
wards and  forwards  at  the  beginning  and  end  of  the 
summer  season,  but  not  the  Worcester  dinner-service, 
nor  the  glass  that  filled  its  cupboards,  nor  the  linen  in 
its  closets,  nor  the  blankets  nor  the  eiderdowns  set  by 
for  winter,  nor  the  few  —  the  rather  few  —  books. 
Mrs.  Garden  herself  had  told  Howell  Gruffydd  that  it 
was  not  likely  that  the  place  would  be  locked  up  for 
the  winter  months  again.  Edward  Garden  intended 
to  spend  more  and  more  time  there;  indeed  he  must, 
unless  by  and  by  he  would  look  musingly  and  a  little 
ill-favouringly  through  his  glasses  at  that  sparse  line  of 
bathing-tents  and  that  little  knot  of  combination-saddled 
donkeys  and  say,  "  This  does  not  appear  to  be  much  of 
a  watering-place."  Already  he  had  made  special  ar- 
rangement for  the  delivery  of  his  Manchester  letters; 


130  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

upstairs  on  the  first  floor  he  had  his  office,  with  a  deep 
window,  the  side  bays  of  which  looked,  the  one  towards 
the  sea,  the  other  to  the  mighty  deltoid-shaped  outline 
of  Mynedd  Mawr;  and  where  Edward  Garden  settled 
he  liked  to  settle  comfortably.  In  that  quiet  and 
rugged  and  curtained  room  he  was  once  more  following 
the  line  of  least  resistance.  The  chances  were  that  he 
already  foresaw  the  direction  that  line  was  likely  to 
take. 

For  Lancashire,  which  had  been  remote  when  folk 
had  had  to  jog  the  ten  miles  from  Forth  Neigr  behind 
a  somnolent  old  brown  horse,  would  be  near  when  that 
snail  had  packed  his  lodging  up  and  departed,  leaving 
only  its  iron  pathway  behind  it;  and  the  Kerrs  in 
their  Hafod  Unos  would  have  been  astonished  to  learn 
how  much  Edward  Garden  mused  upon  Lancashire  and 
upon  just  such  people  as  themselves.  He  mused  upon 
the  cost  of  living  of  such  as  they ;  and  he  mused  upon 
their  standard  of  living,  which  is  a  related  thing,  but 
not  the  same  thing.  He  mused  again  as  he  saw  the 
gradual  change  in  that  standard,  and  contrasted  the 
things  he  saw  with  the  things  he  remembered  in  his  own 
early  days.  In  those  days,  expressly  taken  holidays 
had  been  unheard-of  things.  Folk's  excursions  had 
reached  little  farther  afield  than  their  own  legs  could 
carry  them.  If  John  Pritchard,  of  Llanyglo,  had 
never  been  to  Forth  Neigr,  many  and  many  a  Manches- 
ter man  of  the  days  of  Edward  Garden's  boyhood  had 
never  been  to  Liverpool.  Many  thousands  had  never 
seen  the  sea.  It  had  been  holiday  enough  in  those  days 
to  meet  in  the  streets,  to  play  knurr  and  spell  in  the 
nearest  field,  to  lean  over  walls  and  watch  their  pigs, 
and  to  tend  their  gardens.  Slate  Clubs  and  Goose 
Clubs  and  Holiday  Clubs  had  not  been  invented.  A 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WORKS          131 

shilling  or  half  a  crown  a  week  painfully  saved  would 
not  have  been  squandered  again  for  the  sake  of  that 
little  superfluity  that  had  now  become  the  minimum 
itself.  The  mass  of  the  people  of  his  day  would  no 
more  have  dreamed  of  saving  money  in  order  that  sea- 
side lodging-house  keepers  should  profit  than  they 
would  have  dreamed  of  taking  the  Grand  Tour. 

But  a  generation  seemed  to  have  arisen,  very  dif- 
ferent in  some  ways,  yet  exactly  the  same  in  others. 
They  were  different  in  that  they  refused  to  be  exploited 
any  longer  according  to  the  old  familiar  formulas,  yet 
the  same  in  that  they  were  as  subject  as  their  fathers 
had  been,  and  as  their  sons  and  grandsons  will  be,  to 
the  man  who  could  devise  a  new  one.  All  manner  of 
circumstances  contributed  to  their  unuttered  invita- 
tion (it  was  that  in  effect,  and  the  only  thing  they  did 
not  utter)  that  somebody  should  bring  to  their  exploita- 
tion the  spice  of  variety.  There  were  smoulderings 
everywhere  —  smoulderings  at  Durham  and  West 
Ham,  at  Ayr  and  Lanark  and  Swansea,  at  Sheffield 
and  Manchester  and  Liverpool  and  Leeds  and  Hull. 
Over  his  glasses  and  under  his  glasses  Edward  Garden 
noted  them,  and  inferred  that  the  sum  of  it  all  was 
that  folk  intended  to  have  a  better  time  than  they  had 
been  having.  They  were  quite  unmistakably  resolved 
to  have  a  much  better  time.  Their  grandfathers'  idea 
of  a  Wakes  Week,  for  example,  might  have  been  staying 
at  home  and  timing  the  pigeons  into  the  cote ;  but  they 
meant  to  improve  on  that.  They  intended  to  doff  their 
clogs  and  to  put  on  their  thinnest  shoes,  to  draw  extrav- 
agant sums  from  the  Club,  to  take  railway-tickets,  and 
not  to  rest  from  their  arduous  relaxation  as  long  as  a 
penny  remained  unspent.  .  .  .  Manganese  ?  The  mo- 
ment they  showed  signs  of  coming  his  way,  Edward 


132  MUSHEOOM  TOWN 

Garden  was  after  richer  returns  than  manganese  would 
yield.  He  granted  that  without  manganese  there 
would  have  been  no  Railhead  coming  up  out  of  the 
east,  but  what  he  had  his  eye  on  was  the  new  genera- 
tion's deadly  resolve  to  be  amused,  the  crammed  coffers 
of  its  Holiday  Clubs,  the  beginnings  of  those  tens  and 
scores  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pounds  that  to-day 
a  single  town  will  get  rid  of  in  a  single  fortnight  by 
the  sea. 

But  only  if  it  came  his  way.  He  was  no  Terry.  It 
was  his  business  to  take  things  as  they  were,  not  to 
try  to  make  them  something  they  were  not.  He  had 
no  theories,  no  criticisms,  no  impulses,  no  hesitations. 
He  asked  for  nothing  but  uncoloured  data.  Therefore, 
and  to  that  extent,  Llanyglo's  future  was  not  entirely 
in  his  hands.  It  was  still  free,  and  always,  always, 
save  for  a  little  rising  of  new  stone  here  and  there,  just 
the  same  to  look  at  —  watched  over  by  the  Light  on  its 
noble  Trwyn,  guarded  by  the  majestic  mountain  behind, 
and  presenting  to  its  diurnal  tides  the  same  shore  that 
Copley  Fielding  drew. 

Now  it  befell  towards  the  end  of  the  July  of  that  year 
that  the  Welshmen  of  Llanyglo  held  an  open-air  service 
for  the  young  in  one  of  the  hollows  of  the  sandhills.  It 
was  a  blazing  Sunday  afternoon,  with  the  sea  like 
silk  and  the  pale  mountains  seeming  thrice  their  dis- 
tance away.  They  had  brought  a  small  moveable  plat- 
form and  reading-desk  from  the  Baptist  Chapel,  and 
first  John  Pritchard,  and  then  Howell  Gruffydd  had 
mounted  it.  The  sun  beat  on  the  bare  heads  and  best 
bonnets  and  black-coated  shoulders  of  parents ;  myriads 
of  tiny  hopping  insects  gave  the  surface  of  the  sand  the 
appearance  of  being  in  motion ;  and  a  buzzard  sailed 
in  great  steady  circles  in  the  sky  of  larkspur  blue,  now 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WORKS          133 

standing  out  to  sea,  now  a  speck  in  the  direction  of 
Delyn  or  Mynedd  Mawr. 

Howell  was  teaching  the  twelve  or  fourteen  urchins 
a  new  hymn-tune,  singing  it  now  alone,  now  with  them, 
now  listening  with  little  gestures  of  encouragement 
and  nods  of  pleasure  as  their  voices  rose.  His  secular 
jocularity  was  not  absent,  but  tempered  to  the  occasion. 

"  Louder,  louder  and  quicker  —  it  give  you  an  appe- 
tite for  your  tea,"  he  said,  waving  his  arms  and  beating 
with  his  foot  to  the  accelerated  time.  "  You  will  not 
wake  Mrs.  Hughes  at  the  lighthouse  —  now  — '  Joyful, 
Joyful ?" 

And,  with  Eesaac  Oliver  leading,  they  went  through 
the  tune  again. 

That  a  special  exhortation  should  be  given  to  those 
of  tenderer  years  had  been  deliberately  resolved  upon. 
Since  that  evening  when  the  eight  men  from  the  line 
had  rolled  drunkenly  over  the  sandhills  to  the  Kerrs' 
house,  a  fear  had  weighed  on  the  chapel-goers  of  Llany- 
glo.  Until  then,  their  children  had  known  nothing  of 
the  wide  and  wicked  world;  but  that  ignorance  could 
not  now  be  maintained.  They  must  be  put  on  their 
guard,  and  for  that  job  the  ingratiating  Howell  was 
the  man. 

The  tune  came  to  an  end,  and  he  put  his  leaflet  of 
printed  words  into  his  pocket  and  shepherded  the  row 
of  urchins  into  position  with  movements  of  his  hands. 

"Move  that  way,  John  Roberts  —  I  cannot  see 
Olwen  Morgan's  face.  Hugh  Morgan,  stop  poking 
your  foot  into  that  rabbit-hole  or  you  fall  down  it  and 
we  have  to  dig  you  out.  Miss  Pritchard,  give  Gwen 
Roberts  her  sunbonnet,  if  you  please,  or  she  catss  a 
sunstroke.  Ithel,  where  is  your  handkerchief?  Your 
nose  resem-bles  a  snail.  .  .  Now  listen  to  me.  If  I 


134  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

see  a  boy  or  girl  not  pay  atten-sson  I  stop  till  he  do 
pay  atten-sson " 

And  lie  began.  He  told  them  that  soon,  with  the 
coming  of  the  railway,  there  would  come  also  all 
manner  of  pip-pie,  some  good  pip-pie,  some  bad  pip-pie. 
He  told  them  that  at  Railhead  were  many  bad  pip-pie, 
who  swore,  and  drank  a  great  deal  more  than  was  good 
for  them.  He  told  them  (discreetly,  since  he  had  no 
wish  to  preach  a  jehad  against  customers  so  good  as 
the  Gardens)  that  while  some  boys  might  go  to  Rail- 
head to  play,  boys  like  some  he  would  not  mention,  who 
had  lived  in  large  towns,  yet  it  would  be  bet-ter  if  they 
kept  themselves  to  themselves.  .  .  .  He  did  not  go  the 
length  of  asserting  that  all  good  boys  were  Welsh  and 
country  boys,  and  that  all  bad  ones  were  town-bred  and 
English,  but  —  but  —  well,  things  have  to  be  put  a 
little  starkly  to  the  young.  They  shuffled  their  feet  in 
the  hot  loose  sand  as  he  talked.  The  buzzard  sailed 
back  from  the  mountains.  The  sandhoppers  danced  as 
if  the  ground  had  been  a  frying-pan..  A  holy  peace 
brooded  over  the  land.  Away  at  Railhead  men,  those 
sinful  men  who  drank  and  swore  slept  in  rows,  stretched 
face-downwards  on  the  grass  or  the  thrown-up  banks  of 
clay. 

Then  the  grocer  began  to  promise  the  rewards  of 
virtue.  He  turned  with  an  interrogative  smile  to  John 
Pritchard. 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Pritchard,  do  you  think  I  might 
tell  them  that  see-ret?  Indeed  I  think  I  get  into 
trouble  if  I  do!  But  yess,  I  will  tell  them. —  Atten- 
sson  now.  Hugh  Morgan,  do  not  scratss  your  head. 
Now !  —  Can  any  boy  or  girl  tell  me  what  there  iss  to 
be  in  Mr.  Pritchard's  field  next  month  ? " 

They    guessed    at    once,    with    one    voice.     Howell 


THE  CLEEK  OF  THE  WORKS          135 

Gruffydd  knew  better  than  to  ask  an  audience  questions 
it  could  not  answer.  He  held  up  his  hands  in  admiring 
surprise. 

"  Indeed  they  guess  —  they  are  every  one  right,  Miss 
Pritchard!  Astonissing!  Dear  me,  I  never  saw  such 
s'arp  young  men  and  women !  —  Yess,  they  are  right. 
There  is  to  be  a  Treat  for  the  Sunday  School  scholars ! 
There  now!  And  there  will  be  races,  and  prizes,  and 
tea,  and  the  books  will  be  given  for  those  who  have  had 
the  largest  num-ber  of  attendances  and  have  not  been 
late. —  And  now :  who  is  giving  this  Treat  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Tudor  Williams !  "  they  cried. 

"  Eight  again  —  it  is  Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  the  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament !  And  Mr.  Williams  is  giv-ing  some- 
thing else  too.  He  is  giv-ing  —  I  have  seen  them  — 
new  pictures  —  pictures  of  the  construc-tion  of  flowers 
—  (bot-tany  I  think  it  is  called,  Miss  Pritchard  ?)  — 
and  an-i-mals  —  and  fiss-sses " 

He  turned  up  his  eyes,  as  if  to  the  heavens  from 
which  these  rewards  of  virtuous  living  descended.  The 
croupy  shrilling  of  a  cock  came  from  down  by  the 
beach.  The  bees  droned,  and  the  wheeling  buzzard 
suddenly  dropped  like  a  plummet  a  hundred  yards 
through  the  larkspur  blue. 

It  was  then,  in  that  very  moment,  that  Howell 
Gruffydd's  face  was  seen  to  change.  He  stopped, 
listening.  Beyond  the  hot  cuplike  hollow  in  which 
they  were  assembled  was  another  sunken  way,  and 
along  this  way  somebody  was  approaching.  Probably 
in  complete  unconsciousness  that  any  hearer  was  at 
hand,  this  somebody  was  singing  softly  as  he  came. 
It  was  Tommy,  the  youngest  of  the  Kerrs,  and  he 
was  singing  to  himself,  in  very  bad  Welsh,  Glan 
Meddwdod  Mwyn. 


136  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Now  this  song  is  one  of  the  less  reputable  songs  of 
Wales.  The  English  drifiking  song  usually  contents 
itself  with  extolling  the  mere  convivial  act,  drawing  a 
decent  veil  over  the  lamentable  effects  of  that  act;  but 
even  in  its  title  Glan  Meddwdod  Mwyn  (which  words 
mean  Fair,  Kind  Drunkenness)  has  no  such  reti- 
cence. It  depicts  .  .  .  but  you  can  see  the  difference 
for  yourself.  No  wonder  it  froze  the  words  on  Howell 
Gruffydd's  lips.  In  the  singer's  complete  unconscious- 
ness that  he  was  not  alone  lay  the  whole  sting.  The 
malice,  the  intent,  the  hateful  Lancashire  humour  of 
the  Kerrs  they  had  had  before,  but  not  this  home-thrust 
with  a  weapon  they  themselves  had  provided ! 

Tommy  might  just  as  well  have  climbed  the  hummock 
and  told  them  that,  since  their  language  provided 
equally  for  these  eventualities,  they  were  no  better  than 
anyone  else.  .  .  . 

An  English  drunkard,  to  grub  in  the  lees  of  their 
own  language  like  this ! 

And  little  Hugh  Morgan  had  sniggered ! 

The  unseen  Tommy  and  his  (their)  song  passed  on 
towards  the  Hafod  TJnos. 

Then  Howell  bestirred  himself  again.  "  There, 
now !"  he  said ;  "  what  had  he  just  been  tell-ing  them  ? 
Indeed,  that  was  opp-por-tune,  whatever !  "  .  .  .  But, 
though  he  strove  to  hide  it,  there  was  a  hollowness  now 
in  his  exhortation.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  building 
a  wall  against  a  contagion  that  crept  in  upon  the  invis- 
ible air.  If  Thomas  Kerr  knew  Glan  Meddwdod 
Mwyn  he  might  also  know  viler  ditties  still;  if  little 
Hugh  Morgan,  whom  he  had  thought  pure,  had  snig- 
gered at  Glan  Meddwdod  he  might  guffaw  outright  at 
the  baser  version  of  Sospan  Bach.  .  .  . 

It  could  only  (Howell  thought)  be  original  sin.  .  .  . 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WORKS          13Y 

It  was  at  least  a  little  balm  to  him  to  hear  the 
fervour  with  which  Eesaac  Oliver  once  more  led  the 
singing  of  Joyful,  Joyful. 

And,  by  the  way  (speaking  of  songs),  Eesaac  Oliver's 
choice  of  the  narrow  and  difficult  path  had  already 
involved  him  in  a  persecution  in  which  song  played  a 
minor  part.  This  persecution  was  at  the  hands  of  John 
Willie  Garden.  For,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  Eesaac 
Oliver  had  confided  to  John  Willie  his  plans  for  his 
career;  and  since  then  the  unfeeling  John  Willie,  on 
his  way  to  Railhead  and  debauchery,  had  held  over 
him  the  song  that  contains  the  lines :  — 

"  He  wass  go  to  Je-sus  College 

For  to  try  to  get  some  knowledge 

Wass  you  ever  see"  etc.  etc. 

John  Willie,  itching  to  get  away  from  Pannal,  could 
not  understand  why  anybody  wanted  to  go  to  Jesus, 
Aberystwith,  or  any  other  College. 

"  1  think  it  would  be  wiser 

For  to  stay  with  Sister  Liza 

Wass  you  ever  see,"  etc.  etc. 

he  would  hum  softly  and  (alas)  contemptuously;  and, 
since  it  was  part  of  his  chosen  career  to  do  so,  Eesaac 
Oliver  would  very  expressly  forgive  John  Willie,  get- 
ting into  quite  a  Christian  heat  about  it. 

On  the  day  after  that  homily  on  the  Llanyglo  sand- 
hills, John  Willie  Garden  went  as  usual  to  Railhead, 
and  was  enabled  to  delight  his  leather-belted  and  cordu- 
royed friends  there  with  a  piece  of  information, 
hitherto  secret,  that  he  had  from  his.  father's  table. 
This  was  that  the  line  was  to  be  opened  in  the  following 
Spring  by  His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Snell. 
The  announcement  produced  an  astonishing  effect. 


138  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Not  one  in  ten  of  the  men  either  knew  or  cared  what 
the  enterprise  was  all  about.  They  knew  that  the  rail- 
way was  a  railway,  but  beyond  that,  none  of  its  divi- 
dends being  destined  for  their  pockets,  it  was  merely  the 
job  — "  the  "  job,  the  job  of  the  moment,  the  job  not 
very  different  from  the  last  job,  and  very,  very  like  all 
the  other  jobs  to  come,  until  their  living  hands  should 
become  as  stiff  as  the  picks  they  plied,  and  the  light  of 
their  eyes  be  extinguished  as  their  own  lanterns  were 
extinguished  at  daybreak.  But  at  the  news  that  the 
Duke^of  Snell  was  to  do  his  trick  when  they  had  finished 
theirs,  they  were  innocently  uplifted  and  delighted. 
This  would  be  something  to  tell  their  grandchildren  in 
the  years  to  come !  They  would  spit  on  their  hands  and 
work  better  all  the  afternoon  for  this!  ...  In  the 
meantime  they  discussed  it  when  the  great  buzzer 
called  them  to  their  beef  and  bacon  sandwiches,  their 
chops  and  pickles  and  bread  and  cheese. 

"  So  it's  to  be  t'  Dewk  o'  Snell !  "  one  of  them  ad- 
mired, with  as  much  satisfaction  as  if  he  himself  had 
had  a  tremendous  leg-up  in  the  world  thereby ;  he  was  a 
West  Riding  navvy,  whom  twenty  years  of  digging  up 
the  length  and  breadth  of  England  had  delocalised  of 
everything  save  his  powerful  accent.  "  Well,  now,  I'd 
figgered  it  out  'at  it'ld  happen  be  t'  Prince  o'  Wales 
mesen " 

Here  struck  in  a  Cardiff  man,  so  lean  that  you  would 
not  have  got  another  pennyweight  of  fat  off  him  if  you 
had  fried  him  in  his  own  frying-pan. 

"  Wass-n't  it  the  Duke  of  Snell  that  mar-ried  the 
Prin-cess  Victorine  ? " 

"  Noa,  That  wor  t'  Dewk  o'  Flint,"  the  Yorkshire 
navvy  replied,  with  authority.  "  T'  Dewk  o'  Snell  wed 
t'  youngest,  t'  Princess  Alix.  I  knaw  all  t'  lot  on  'em ; 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WORKS          139 

t'  missis  bed  all  their  pic'ters  o'  biscuit-boxes;  they 
reached  from  one  end  o'  t'  chimley-piece  to  t'  other; 
ye  couldn't  ha'  got  a  finger  in  between." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  Cardiff  man,  an  inquiring 
mind  among  many  complacent  ones,  "  it  is  curious,  how 
lit-tle  diff-ference  it  makes  to  us.  The  Prinss  of 
Wales,  say  you  ?  If  I  wait  for  the  Prinss  of  Wales  to 
give  me  ano-ther  piece  of  this  ba-con  I  wait  a  long  time, 
whatever!  .  .  .  But  prapss  we  get  our  in-vi-ta-tions 
soon,"  he  added  jocularly,  taking  an  enormous  bite  of 
bread.  "  S'all  you  be  there,  John  Willie  ?  " 

John  Willie  answered,  a  little  doubtfully,  that  he 
hoped  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony  if  he  could  get 
away  from  school.  The  Cardiff  man  wagged  his  head. 
There  are  few  Welshmen  who  do  not  wag  their  heads 
at  the  sound  of  the  word  school. 

"  Ah,  school ;  it  iss  a  gra-and  thing,"  he  said,  still 
wagging.  "  I  not  be  work-king  here  with  my  shirt  wet-t 
on  my  back  if  I  go  to  a  prop-per  school." 

"  Oh,  be  dinged  to  that  tale !  "  returned  the  York- 
shireman  bluntly,  cutting  cheese  on  his  leathery  palm. 
"  T'  schools  is  all  my  backside !  They  learn  'em  a  lot 
o'  newfangled  stuff,  but  I  remember  'at  when  tea  wor 
eight  shillin'  a  pund,  an'  they  kept  a  penny  nutmeg  in 
a  wood  case  as  if  it  wor  diamonds " 

"  Aw-w-w,  there  iss  that  Burkie,  talk-king  again !  " 
said  the  Cardiff  man. 

"  It's  reight,  for  all  that " 

And  presently  the  talk  had  veered  round  to  those 
very  changes  of  standards  and  conditions,  his  careful 
study  of  which  had  led  Edward  Garden  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  a  generation  had  arisen  that  intended  thence- 
forward to  have  more  of  the  world's  good  things 
than  it  had  been  having  or  know  the  reason  why. 


140  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

As  it  happened,  the  work  on  the  line  had  that  day 
taken  a  new  leap  forward.  Again  all  the  life  of  the 
python  had  rolled  on  ahead,  and  John  Willie,  lunching 
with  his  friends,  was  doing  so  at  a  point  actually  be- 
yond Llanyglo,  two  miles  nearer  to  Abercelyn.  From 
the  Abercelyn  end  also  the  line  was  coming  to  meet 
them,  and  the  two  sections  would  meet  at  a  place 
called  Sarn.  Sam  means  Causeway,  and  there  the  sea 
showed,  like  a  piece  of  bright  piano-wire,  across  a 
waste  of  fleecy  bog-cotton  and  bog-myrtle,  sundew  and 
flags  and  rushes.  A  siding  was  to  be  made  there.  Be- 
cause of  Sarn  Church,  a  tiny  little  building  with  an  odd 
Fifteenth-Century  circular  tower,  Squire  Wynne  loved 
this  region,  and  attended  service  there ;  but  as  that  Serv- 
ice was  held  only  once  a  year,  the  "  Hough !  "  of  the 
shunting-engines  and  the  clanking  of  couplings  would 
disturb  it  little.  The  Squire  sighed  to  think  that, 
among  so  many,  many  other  changes,  it  would  be  only 
one  change  the  more.  His  sales  of  land  had  provided 
him  with  just  enough  money  to  last  his  time  out,  and 
on  the  whole  he  thought  he  did  not  want  to  outlive  his 
time.  Perhaps  he  too  had  had  his  glimpse  of  that 
vision  of  Edward  Garden's,  though  as  it  were  in  ob- 
verse; and,  looking,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Who, 
in  another  twenty  or  thirty  years,  would  care  for  the 
things  he  had  cared  for  ?  Who  would  waste  a  thought 
on  antiquity  ?  WTio  would  open  his  County  History,  or 
his  books  on  Brasses  or  Church  Plate,  Memorials  or 
Heraldry  or  Glass?  Who  would  know  each  tree  he 
came  upon  on  his  walks,  as  a  country  doctor  knows  his 
patients  —  its  sickness,  its  health,  its  need  of  air,  its 
treatment,  its  amputations?  Who  would  repair  the 
staircase  at  the  Plas,  and  restore  its  magnificent  ceil- 
ings, and  set  the  merry  smoke  streaming  up  its  chimneys 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WORKS          141 

once  more  ?  .  .  .  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  would  probably 
do  this  last.  He  would  no  doubt  convert  the  Plas  into 
a  Museum  (as  he  would  have  converted  Sarn  Church 
itself  into  a  Museum),  and  fill  it  with  cases  of  ice- 
scratched  pebbles,  and  diagrams  of  strata  and  flowers, 
for  reluctant  and  educated  urchins  to  gape  at.  The 
Squire  was  entirely  in  sympathy  with  John  Willie 
Garden's  corduroyed  friend  Burkie  about  these  things. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  multitude,  which  after  all 
had  backbone  enough  to  starve  rather  than  go  on  the 
Parish,  would  not  resist  this  organised  pauperisation  of 
its  mind.  It  was  time  the  Squire  died,  since  he  held 
that  not  everybody  has  the  right  to  everything  and  no 
questions  asked.  Otherwise  not  an  inhumane  man, 
there  were  nevertheless  abstractions  which  he  loved 
more  than  he  loved  his  fellow-being.  .  .  . 

And  who  would  drink  what  was  left  of  that  won- 
drous old  port? 

Well,  the  Squire,  sighing  and  smiling  a  little  wist- 
fully both  at  once,  intended  to  see  to  that  himself. 


in 

THE    CtTETAIN   EAISEE 

BUT  while  the  march  of  events  drove  the  aborigines 
of  Llanyglo  ever  more  and  more  closely  together, 
as  the  reaping  of  a  field  of  corn  drives  the  mice  and 
snakes  and  rabbits  to  the  narrowing  square  in  the 
centre,  at  the  same  time  something  of  the  opposite 
process  went  on.  Two  or  three  stood  aloof,  Welsh  when 
it  suited  them  to  be  Welsh,  less  Welsh  at  other  times. 
One  of  these  was  Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  the  Member  of 
Parliament.  Another  was  Howell  Gruffydd,  the 
grocer. 

For  thick  as  thieves  now  were  Edward  Garden  and 
Tudor  Williams,  and  to  their  frequent  councils  was 
admitted  also  Raymond  Briggs,  the  architect,  whose  son 
had  been  John  Willie's  schoolfellow  at  Pannal. 

This  Raymond  Briggs  was  a  Yorkshireman,  from 
Hunslet,  but  you  wouldn't  have  thought  it  to  look  at 
him.  You  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  superfine,  but 
you  had  no  idea  how  superfine  until  he  opened  his 
mouth.  He  was  tall,  plumpish,  very  erect,  numerously 
chinned  and  faultlessly  dressed;  and,  having  entered 
into  culture  by  one  of  the  noblest  of  its  portals,  archi- 
tecture, it  was  small  wonder  that  he  wished  to  forget 
Hunslet,  with  its  black  canal,  its  serried  weaving-sheds, 
its  grimy  warehouses,  and  its  sooty  brickfields.  Cer- 
tainly he  had  completely  forgotten  it  in  his  speech. 

Over  an  alien  mode  he  had  acquired  a  really  remark- 

142 


THE  CURTAIN  EAISER  143 

able  mastery;  and  had  it  not  been  for  a  trifling  uncer- 
tainty about  his  vowels,  particularly  his  "  a's,"  you 
would  have  set  him  down  as  quite  as  much  London  as 
Leeds.  And  so  more  or  less  with  everything  else  about 
Raymond. —  But  his  wife  haled  you  north  again.  To 
her,  acquirements  were  like  hot  plates  to  the  fingers,  to 
be  kept  constantly  in  motion  or  else  dropped  altogether. 
Her  husband  was  probably  the  most  humourless  man 
who  ever  came  to  Llanyglo ;  but  Maud  Briggs  would  use 
the  homeliest  of  dialect-words  in  the  most  artificial  of 
accents,  and  would  tell  you,  even  while  she  was  mother- 
ing you  with  cool  drinks  in  the  most  hospitable  fashion, 
that  the  piece  of  ice  she  dropped  with  a  clink  into  your 
glass  was  positively  "  the  last  piece  in  the  hoil " —  if 
you  know  your  West  Riding  well  enough  to  understand 
the  peculiar  significance  of  the  word  "  hoil "  as  applied 
to  a  house.  Her  rings  were  dazzling,  for  Raymond's 
invaluable  lack  of  humour  had  enabled  him  to  make  his 
mark  on  the  world;  the  blue-and-white  collapsible  boat 
which  their  son  Percy  brought  with  him  to  Llanyglo 
had  cost  his  father  a  cool  twenty-five  pounds  in  London ; 
and  it  would  not  be  for  lack  of  money  if  Percy  did  not 
turn  out  a  very  superior  silk  purse  indeed. 

So  when  the  snail,  his  journey  finished,  rested  and 
made  the  siding  at  Sarn  and  then  returned  to  Porth 
Neigr  again,  and  Railhead  was  dismantled,  and  grasses 
began  to  seed  themselves  about  the  upturned  soil,  Ed- 
ward Garden  and  Raymond  Briggs  and  Tudor  Wil- 
liams, M.P.,  had  their  heads  frequently  together;  and 
no  longer  were  the  short  days  and  long  nights  a  season 
of  hibernation  for  Llanyglo.  Three  years  out  of  four 
the  Llanyglo  winters  are  mild;  this  particular  winter 
was  not  so  inclement  that  it  stopped  building-operations 
for  more  than  a  day  or  two  at  a  time ;  and,  with  a  sort 


144  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

of  miniature  Railhead  strung  out  along  the  Forth  ISTeigr 
road  for  his  labour,  Raymond's  second  house  rose 
steadily  course  by  course,  and  already  they  were  drain- 
ing and  digging  for  the  first  hotel.  If  they  were  mainly 
Forth  Neigr  men  Raymond  employed,  that  did  not 
mean  that  Dafydd  Dan's  or  any  other  Llanyglo  man  who 
was  so  minded  would  not  be  taken  on ;  indeed  they  were 
taken  on ;  but  it  did  mean  that  the  centre  of  gravity  of 
the  labour-supply  had  shifted,  and  would  never  shift 
back  again.  Those  temporary  dwellings  along  the 
Forth  ISTeigr  road  were  a  constant  reminder  that  if  the 
Llanyglo  men  did  not  like  it  they  might  lump  it;  and 
as  they  did  neither,  but  while  disliking  it  intensely,  bore 
a  hand  and  took  their  wages  just  the  same,  they  ap- 
peared to  be  sufficiently  quelled. 

Edward  Garden,  while  making  Llanyglo  his  head- 
quarters, was  again  much  away.  A  whisper  was  started 
that  he  was  once  more  treating  for  land,  but,  as  no 
further  land  appeared  to  be  available,  the  rumour  was 
derided  as  idle.  Howell  Gruffydd  was  already  convert- 
ing the  two  original  matchboarded  cottages  to  his  own 
use.  Something  Departmental  happened  somewhere 
beyond  Llanyglo's  ken  (probably  Mr.  Tudor  Williams 
knew  all  about  it),  and  the  word  came  that  the  Post 
Oifice  was  to  be  transferred  from  John  Pritchard's  to 
Howell's  new  shop ;  and  though  the  Post  Office  was  on 
the  whole  more  trouble  than  it  was  worth,  for  a  little 
while  Howell  seemed  likely  to  have  a  quarrel  on  his 
hands. 

But  Howell  had  not  definitely  taken  a  part  without 
knowing  equally  definitely  how  to  bear  himself  in  that 
part.  He  did  not  intend  to  be  herded  into  the  gloomy 
company  of  a  lot  of  beaten  and  sulking  Welsh  national- 
ists! As  if  already  a  vast  spud  had  cut  about  Man- 


THE  CURTAIN  BAISER  145 

chester  or  Liverpool,  and  an  equally  vast  spade  had 
taken  either  of  these  cities  up  bodily  like  a  square  of 
peat  and  had  set  it  down  again  on  the  Llanyglo  sand- 
hills, so  the  idea  of  expansion  had  taken  hold  of 
Howell's  mind.  He  even  went  a  little  preposterously 
beyond  bounds,  as  others  did  later,  when  they  learned 
that  their  old  Welsh  dressers  and  armchairs  were  a 
rarity  and  marketable,  and  proceeded  to  put  ridiculous 
prices  upon  them.  And  probably  Edward  Garden  had 
a  use  for  Howell.  Already  it  looked  like  it.  The 
answer  with  which  Howell  appeased  John  Pritchard 
in  the  matter  of  the  transference  of  the  Post  Office 
looked  very  much  like  it.  Edward  Garden  himself 
could  not  so  have  reconciled  John  to  all  this  innovation 
with  a  single  whispered  word. 

For  " Bazaars"  Howell  said  furtively  to  John,  be- 
hind his  hand ;  and  the  quick  electric  gleam  in  his  eyes 
was  instantly  extinguished  again.  .  .  . 

You  see.  They  had  never  had  a  bazaar  at  Llanyglo. 
There  would  have  been  little  profit  in  passing  their 
own  money  about  among  themselves.  But  strangers' 
money.  .  .  .  That  was  the  soul  of  good  in  things  other- 
wise evil  that  Howell  whispered  to  John  Pritchard,  and 
later  it  was  so  observingly  distilled  out  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Baptist  and  other  Chapels  that  for  a  time  there 
was  actually  a  danger  lest  the  mulcting  should  keep 
folk  away. 

And  if  even  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  himself  now  ap- 
peared a  little  absent-minded  among  his  constituents, 
and  hauled  himself,  as  it  were,  out  of  remote  fastnesses 
of  thought  to  grasp  them  fervently  (if  indiscriminately) 
by  the  hand,  and  to  inquire  after  their  rheumatics  and 
wives  and  other  plagues,  well,  he  was  a  busy,  and  not  at 
all  a  wealthy  man.  At  Llanyglo,  as  elsewhere,  it  was 


146  MUSHKOOM  TOWN 

not  only  Welsh  and  English;  it  was  also  Get  or  Go 
Wanting.  The  early  bird.  .  .  . 

So  (to  push  on)  circular  smears  of  white  appeared 
on  the  windows  of  the  second  of  Raymond  Briggs's 
houses  (it  was  finished  by  Christmas),  and  these  gave  it 
the  appearance  of  a  sudden  new  Argus,  looking  out  on 
every  side  for  other  houses  to  join  it ;  and  the  scaffold- 
poles  began  to  rise  about  the  new  hotel  like  a  larch- 
plantation.  Raymond  came  and  went,  and  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams  came  and  went,  and  short  winter  day  followed 
short  winter  day.  Then,  with  cat's-ice  still  glazing  the 
ruts  and  pools  but  a  feeling  of  Spring  in  the  air,  Forth 
Neigr,  ten  miles  away,  came  bustlingly  to  life.  An 
emissary  of  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  County  took  up 
his  quarters  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  and  there  he  was  one 
day  joined  by  the  Lord-Lieutenant  himself,  with  Sir 
Somebody  Something,  of  the  Office  of  Works.  These 
summoned  others,  who  in  turn  summoned  others,  and 
maps  and  plans  were  sent  for  and  a  line  of  route  was 
chosen.  Police  were  drafted  in,  and  folk  went  up  into 
their  upper  front  rooms  to  see  which  bedstead  or  table- 
leg  would  best  stand  the  strain  of  a  rope  across  the 
t  street.  The  old  station  had  been  repainted  to  suit  with 
the  new  extension,  and  masts  rose  at  its  entrance.  To 
the  residents  in  the  principal  streets  the  Council  lent 
loyal  emblems  and  devices.  The  sounds  of  bands  prac- 
tising could  be  heard.  His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke 
of  Snell  was  coming  to  open  the  line. 

Then  on  the  appointed  day,  the  town  broke  into  a 
flutter  of  bunting.  The  March  sun  shone  merrily  on 
Royal  Standard  and  Red  Dragon,  on  Union  Jack  and 
ensign,  on  gold-fringed  banners  with  "  CROESAW  " 
on  one  side  and  "  WELCOME  "  on  the  other.  On  the 
new  metals  a  Royal  Salute  of  fog-signals  was  laid. 


THE  CURTAIN  RAISER  147 

Warning  of  the  Approach  passed  along  the  line,  on 
the  red-dmggeted  platform  officials  great  and  small 
waited,  and  John  Willie  Garden's  friends,  whose  picks 
and  shovels  had  made  the  clay  fly,  would  no  doubt  read 
all  about  it  a  few  days  later  in  the  papers. 

So,  with  detonation  of  fog-signals,  and  some  cheers, 
but  more  wide-eyed  gazing,  and  bared  heads  and  bowing 
backs,  and  an  Address,  and  other  circumstances  of 
loyalty  and  fraternisation  and  joy,  His  Royal  Highness 
and  John  Willie  Garden  between  them  declared  the  line 
open;  but  only  the  Duke  rode  on  the  footplate  of  the 
garlanded  engine  with  the  crossed  flags  on  its  belly. 
Probably  intensely  bored,  he  rode  out  about  a  mile 
towards  Abercelyn,  and  then  returned  to  luncheon  at 
the  Royal  Hotel.  An  hour  later,  coming  out  again,  he 
passed  away  to  Lancashire.  All  was  over.  Folk 
might  now  take  down  their  bunting  as  soon  as  they 
pleased.  The  trick  was  virtually  done  for  Llanyglo. 
A  loop  at  Sarn  or  a  new  junction,  and  a  realisation  on 
the  part  of  those  in  authority  that  there  were  things  that 
paid  better  than  Abercelyn  manganese,  and  Llanyglo 
would  be  "  linked  up  "  with  rigid  iron  to  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

Nay,  it  is  already  linked  up  even  more  straitly.  A 
few  poles  and  a  thread  of  wire,  crossing  the  sandhills 
and  ending  at  the  Llanyglo  Stores,  have  some  weeks  ago 
put  an  end  to  its  isolation.  It  is  the  nerve  that  accom- 
panies the  sinew,  and  Howell  Gruffydd  now  receives 
and  despatches  telegrams.  All  is  over  bar  the  shouting, 
and  it  will  not  be  long  before  that  begins.  They  are 
busy  now,  painting  and  papering  the  new  hotel,  and 
decorating  and  upholstering  it.  It  reeks  of  new  paint 
and  varnish  and  furniture-polish  and  the  plumbers' 
blowpipes.  It  resounds  with  all  the  doubly  loud  noises 


148  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

of  a  half -empty  place  —  with  hammering  and  tacking, 
clanking  buckets,  the  "  Whoas !  "  to  the  horses  of  the 
delivery-vans,  the  jolting  of  heavy  things  moved  up- 
stairs, the  rasp  of  scrubbing-hrushes,  the  squeak  of  win- 
dow-cloths. It  is  spick-and-span,  from  the  feathery 
new  larches  in  front  to  the  silvery  new  dustbins  be- 
hind. .  .  .  Wherefore,  seeing  that  we  shall  only  be  in 
the  way,  with  never  a  chair  to  sit  down  on  yet,  and 
nothing  to  eat  in  the  place  save  what  the  charwoman 
and  the  green-aproned  carters  and  carriers  have  brought 
for  themselves,  we  may  as  well  leave  all  these  things  to 
the  folk  whose  business  it  is  to  attend  to  them,  and  take 
a  nap  for  a  month  or  two,  secure  that  when  we  wake  up 
again  the  scene  will  be  set  for  Llanyglo's  lever  de  rideau, 
that  starched  and  polite  and  not  quite  real  little  piece 
that  preludes  the  main  action  of  our  tale.  There  is 
heather  and  wild  thyme  up  the  Trwyn,  very  comfort- 
able to  doze  on ;  suppose  we  have  our  nap  up  there  ?  .  .  . 

Ah-Ti-Ti-Ti !  —  That  was  the  July  sun  that  woke  us. 
It's  a  warm  and  brilliant  morning.  Stretch  yourself 
first,  and  then  have  a  look  down.  .  .  . 

That's  a  surprise,  isn't  it?  You  didn't  quite  expect 
that?  Really  not  much  changed,  and  yet  it's  entirely 
changed.  Two  new  houses  and  an  hotel  (in  this  clean 
air  they'll  be  new-looking  for  years  yet),  and  that  little 
border  of  deck-chairs  and  bathing-tents  and  slowly  mov- 
ing parasols,  not  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  long  alto- 
gether, and  yet  the  whole  appearance  of  the  place  is 
altered.  After  a  moment  you  find  it  quite  difficult  to 
remember  it  as  it  was  the  last  time  we  were  up  here. 
See  that  little  puff  of  smoke  over  there?  That's  a 
shunting-engine  at  Sarn ;  you'll  hear  the  sound  in  a  mo- 
ment; there!  —  Butterflies  about  us,  like  hovering 


THE  CURTAIN  RAISER  149 

pansies ;  you  can  see  just  one  corner  of  poor  old  Terry's 
Thelema  showing ;  and  out  there,  where  the  sea  changes 
colour,  just  where  the  gulls  are  rocking,  that's  a  bank 
of  sand  a  storm  threw  up  three  or  four  years  ago.  And 
that's  the  telegraph-wire  I  spoke  of,  running  straight 
across  to  Howell  Gruffydd's  shop  there.  Yes,  that 
links  Llanyglo  up.  .  .  . 

Where  did  all  these  people  come  from?  Well,  it's 
hard  to  say,  but  no  doubt  Edward  (rarden's  got  them 
here  for  one  reason  and  another.  He  may  even  have 
"  packed  "  the  place  a  little  carefully ;  I  don't  know.  At 
any  rate,  he's  lent  "  Sea  View  "  there  (that's  the  newer 
of  the  two  houses)  to  Gilbert  Smythe.  Who's  Gilbert 
Smythe?  Well,  he's  the  Medical  Officer  for  Bran- 
newsome,  Lanes.,  and  a  very  clever  and  quite  an  honest 
man.  But  Gilbert's  family's  grown  more  quickly  than 
his  fortune,  live  as  frugally  as  he  will  he's  always  in 
debt,  and  he  isn't  going  to  say  "  No  "  to  the  free  offer 
of  a  well-built,  roomy  house,  not  three  minutes  from  the 
sands  where  the  children  can  play  all  day,  and  furnished 
from  the  potato-masher  in  the  kitchen  to  the  little  square 
looking-glasses  in  the  servants'  attics.  And  of  course 
Edward  Garden  asks  nothing  in  return.  But  if  Gilbert 
cares  to  say  that  the  Llanyglo  water  is  abundant  and 
pure,  Edward  won't  object  —  it  is  excellent  water. 
And  if  Gilbert  likes  to  praise  its  air  and  low  rainfall 
(low  for  Wales),  well,  he'll  be  telling  no  more  than  the 
truth.  And  if  Gilbert  (not  bearing  ancient  Mrs. 
Pritchard  too  much  in  mind)  finds  the  longevity  at 
Llanyglo  remarkable,  what's  the  harm  in  that?  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  is  a  saying  that  the  oldest  inhab- 
itant always  dies  first  at  Llanyglo,  and  the  others  follow 
in  order  of  age,  which  would  be  a  poor  look-out  for  any- 
body setting  up  in  the  Insurance  business  here.  ...  So 


150  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

if  by  and  by  Gilbert  signs  a  statement  to  this  general 
effect,  you  can  hardly  blame  him.  He  has  his  way  to 
make,  and  he  is  a  wise  man  who  allows  the  galleons 
of  the  Gardens  of  the  world  to  give  his  skiff  a  tow. 

The  others  ?  Well,  Edward  Garden's  a  cleverer  man 
than  I,  and  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  explain  the 
workings  of  his  mind  to  you  in  detail.  But  I  think 
we  may  assume  he  knows  what  he  is  about.  I  needn't 
say  they're  all  very  well-to-do;  you  can  see  that  even 
from  here ;  but  there's  something  else  about  them,  some- 
thing we  saw  in  Raymond  Briggs,  that's  a  little  difficult 
to  describe  —  perhaps  it's  merely  that  they  too  intend 
(mutatis  mutandis,  of  course)  that  their  children  shall 
have  a  better  time  than  their  parents  have  had  —  or  per- 
haps we'd  better  say  their  grandparents  had,  for  their 
parents  do  themselves  very  well,  indeed.  I  don't  think 
you  can  say  more  about  them  than  that  —  it's  just  that 
dash  of  Raymond  Briggs.  .  .  .  Squire  Wynne  wouldn't 
understand  them  in  the  least.  The  Squire's  wasted  too 
much  time  over  antiquity.  He  doesn't  know  anything 
about  these  people  who  are  coming  on.  Except  in  their 
clothes,  and  so  on,  he'd  see  very  little  difference  between 
them  and  people  Raymond  Briggs  would  look  at  as  if 
they  weren't  there.  He  wouldn't  understand  Philip 
Lacey,  for  example.  (Do  you  see  that  orange-and- 
black  striped  blazer  —  there  by  the  seaweed :  he's  point- 
ing; that's  Philip  Lacey.)  Philip  is  the  big  Liverpool 
florist,  seedsman,  and  landscape-gardener;  if  he  hasn't 
his  "  roots  in  the  land  "  in  exactly  the  sense  the  Squire 
understands,  his  plants  have ;  and  Philip  distinctly  does 
not  intend  that  Euonyma  and  Wygelia,  who  are  at 
present  at  school  at  Brighton,  shall  go  into  one  of  his 
fourteen  or  fifteen  retail  shops.  Philip  isn't  spending 
all  that  money  for  that.  .  .  .  (Understand  me,  I  think 


THE  CURTAIN  EAISER  151 

Philip's  perfectly  right;  the  only  thing  I  don't  quite 
see  is  why  he  should  veneer  good  sound  stuff  with  some- 
thing that's  an  obvious  sham.)  Of  his  wife,  frankly, 
I  don't  think  very  much.  Her  processes  show  too 
plainly.  Philip  has  his  business  to  attend  to,  but  Mrs. 
Lacey  never  leaves  her  one  idea,  day  or  night.  .  .  . 
There,  Philip's  stopped  and  spoken  to  Mr.  Morrell.  Mr. 
Morrell  has  just  as  many  hopes  and  plans  for  Hilda  as 
the  Laceys  have  for  Euonyma  and  Wygelia,  but  he 
knows  that  his  "  a's  "  are  past  praying  for,  so  he  makes 
rather  a  display  of  his  native  speech.  I  needn't  tell 
you  what  a  trial  that  is  to  Hilda.  .  .  . 

And  bear  in  mind  that  these  are  prosperous  people, 
well-travelled  people  (though  they  mostly  keep  to  the 
beaten  tracks  where  they  meet  one  another  —  it's  Mrs. 
Briggs's  chief  recollection  of  Florence  that  she  met 
some  people  she  knew  in  Leeds  there),  people  who  put 
up  at  far  better  hotels  than  you  or  I  do.  And  if  these, 
who  can  afford  it,  can  be  shown  the  way  to  Llanyglo, 
the  chances  are  that  a  crowd  of  other  people,  who  cer- 
tainly can't  afford  it  but  as  certainly  won't  be  out  of 
it,  will  come  in  their  wake. 

What  do  you  say  to  our  going  down  and  having  a 
closer  look  at  them  ?  We  might  take  a  stroll  as  far  as 
Howell  Gruffydd's  shop  —  I  beg  its  pardon,  Stores. 
Sit  still  a  moment  though;  here's  Minetta  Garden  be- 
hind us.  She's  been  sketching  the  Dinas,  very  likely. 
Minetta  very  much  wants  to  be  an  artist,  and  you  meet 
her  with  her  sketching  things  all  over  the  place.  It 
may  or  may  not  be  a  passing  fancy;  she  certainly  has 
what  Raymond  Briggs  calls  a  "  Rossetti  head  " —  enor- 
mous dark  eyes,  sharpish  jaw,  straight  dark  hair,  and  a 
disconcerting  way  of  staring  at  people  who  are  "  putting 
it  on  "  a  little  more  thickly  than  usual  (she  stares  pretty 


152  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

frequently  at  Raymond  himself).     Ah,  she's  taking  the 
steep  way  down.     We'll  take  the  other  way.  .  .  . 

Now  we're  on  the  level;  better  put  your  tie  straight 
—  or  aren't  you  overpowered  by  these  things  ?  I  con- 
fess I  am;  Raymond  Briggs  always  chills  me  when  he 
casts  his  eye  over  my  front  elevation.  No  thick-booted 
undergraduates'  holiday-parties  nor  furry  art-students 
with  knickers  and  bare  throats  here.  We're  spruce  at 
Llanyglo.  Even  on  a  week-day  it's  like  a  Church 
Parade,  and  on  Sundays  we  go  one  better  still.  All  the 
men  have  brightly  coloured  flannel  blazers  and  gaudy 
cammerbands,  and  the  women  carry  many-flounced  para- 
sols by  a  ring  at  the  ferrule  end,  and  wear  toilettes 
straight  out  of  the  "  Queen."  Some  of  them  will 
change  for  lunch;  all  of  them  will  for  table  d'hote  at 
seven.  They  protest  that  they  vastly  prefer  dinner  at 
seven,  but  what  with  the  servants'  dinners  at  midday, 
and  husbands  who  prefer  the  old-fashioned  hour,  and 
one  thing  and  another,  they  take  their  principal  meal 
at  one.  There's  no  reason  they  shouldn't.  There's  no 
reason  they  should  mention  it  at  all.  But  they  do, 
every  day.  If  you're  introduced  to  them,  they'll  all 
have  told  you  within  twenty-four  hours.  It's  as  if  they 
didn't  want  there  to  be  any  mistake  about  something 
or  other.  .  .  . 

Here's  where  the  donkeys  turn.  They  have  red  and 
white  housings,  and  their  names  across  their  foreheads 
— "  Tiny"  "  Prince"  and  so  on ;  the  donkey-rides  are  a 
little  offshoot  of  Forth  Neigr  Omnibuses.  Kite-flying's 
popular  here  too  —  that's  Mr.  Morrell's,  the  big  star- 
shaped  one.  The  bathing-tents  and  deck-chairs  are 
mostly  hired  from  Howell  Gruffydd,  but  there  are  no 
boats  yet  except  Percy  Briggs's  twenty-five-pound  col- 


THE  CURTAIN  KAISER,  153 

lapsible  one;  those  who  want  to  go  fishing  have  to  use 
one  of  those  old  Copley  Fielding  things  by  the  jetty 
there.  .  .  .  Now  we're  coming  to  the  people.  Here's 
Raymond  Briggs  with  Mr.  Lacey,  Raymond  in  his 
orange-and-black  blazer  and  a  white  Homburg  hat, 
Philip  in  a  blue  blazer  with  white  braid  and  a  plain 
straw  hat;  both  with  perfect  creamy  rippling  white 
trousers  and  spotless  white  doeskin  boots.  They're 
talking  off-handedly  about  other  holiday-places  —  Nor- 
way, the  Highlands,  the  Riviera  —  and  they're  afraid 
of  showing  any  enthusiasm  or  delight.  Of  every  place 
they  know  they  say  that  it  has  "  gone  off  "  since  they 
first  went  there.  There's  a  subtle  undercurrent  of  con- 
test about  their  conversation.  Philip  was  at  Hyeres  as 
recently  as  last  winter,  looking  at  the  violets ;  but  Ray- 
mond has  been  three  times  to  Aries  and  Nimes.  I  sup- 
pose honours  are  easy. 

"  Roman,  I've  heard  ?  "  Philip  remarks.  (You  can 
hear  him  as  you  pass.) 

"Yes,  Roman,  with  a  Saracenic  tower." 

"  Ah,  that  tower's  Saracenic,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Saracenic." 

"  Wonderful  people !  " 

"  Indeed  yes !  " 

"  Curious  how  it  takes  you  back  into  ancient  times." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  shortens  history." 

"  But  the  hotel  accommodation ! " 

"  Oh,  bad  in  the  extreme !  " 

"  What  they  want  is  entirely  new  and  up-to-date 
management " 

"  Quite  so " 

"  Can't  say  I  thought  much  of  their  l>ouilldbaisse." 

"  An  acquired  taste,  I  suppose " 

And  they  pass  on.     They'll  talk  like  that  the  whole 


154  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

morning.  They're  not  really  interested  in  their  subject. 
As  I  say,  it  makes  you  think  of  a  sort  of  contest.  Per- 
sonally, I  always  want  to  applaud  when  somebody  scores 
a  good  point.  Perhaps  the  idea  is  that  they're  doing 
Llanyglo  a  favour  by  coming  here  — 

There,  stepping  over  the  tent-ropes,  are  Mrs.  Briggs 
and  Mr.  Ashton.  Mr.  Ashton  is  Edward  Garden's 
chief  London  representative,  a  man  of  pleasure  and  of 
the  world,  and  for  all  I  know  his  function  may  be  to 
keep  these  prosperous  northerners  up  to  the  metropoli- 
tan mark.  Mrs.  Briggs,  for  example,  who  is  very  short 
and  stout,  and  wears  a  lavender  bonnet  and  pelisse,  and 
certainly  will  not  walk  far  on  the  sand  in  those  heels, 
is  on  her  mettle  now.  She  is  telling  Mr.  Ashton  some 
London  hotel  experience  or  other.  I  like  Mrs.  Briggs. 
She's  worth  ten  of  Raymond.  But  I  don't  think  she 
quite  knows  which  is  the  paste  and  which  the  jewels  in 
her  speech. 

" and  so  at  the  l  Metropole '  they  couldn't  take 

Ray  and  I  in ;  not  that  I  was  surprised  in  the  very  least, 
such  frights  as  we  looked  after  the  voyage,  and  hardly 
any  luggage ;  it  hadn't  come  on  from  Paris,  you  see.  So 
I  says  to  Ray,  '  It's  no  good  making  a  noration  here,  for 
it's  plain  they  don't  want  us.  I'm  glad  they're  doing  so 
well  they  can  afford  to  turn  money  away.'  So  I 
turns  to  the  manager,  who  was  staring  at  my  slippers 
I'd  put  on  for  the  rail  way- journey,  and  '  Don't  if  it 
hurts  you/  I  said,  and  with  that  we  slammed  our  things 
together  and  drove  off  to  the  '  Grand ' " 

You  can  hear  Mr.  Ashton's  sympathetic  murmurs . . . 
but  that's  Mrs.  Lacey,  with  Mr.  Morrell,  just  turn- 
ing; she  thinks  that  Euonyma  and  Wygelia  have  been 
quite  long  enough  in  the  water.  Mr.  Morrell  is  in  cool- 
looking  cream  alpaca;  Mrs.  Lacey,  who  is  hook-nosed 


THE  CURTAIN  RAISER  155 

and  pepper-and-salt  haired  and  thin  as  a  hop-pole,  re- 
sembles a  many-flounced  hollyhock  in  her  silvery  battle- 
ship grey. 

"  They'll  tak'  no  harm,  weather  like  this,"  Mr.  Mor- 
rell  is  saying.  "  What's  that  I  was  going  to  ask  you, 
now  ?  .  .  .  I  have  it.  Is  it  right  'at  Briggs  is  to  build 
you  a  new  house  ovver  yonder  ?  " 

A  foot  or  so  over  Mr.  Morrell's  head,  Mrs.  Lacey 
replies  that  Mr.  Lacey  hasn't  decided  yet. — "  You  see, 
with  the  girls  at  Brighton  for  another  year  yet,  and 
then  of  course  they'll  have  to  go  to  Paris,  it's  early  to 
say." 

"  There's  some  talk  of  his  making  a  Floral  Valley, 
isn't  there  ? " 

"  I've  not  heard. —  But  I'm  sure  those  girls " 


They're  as  right  as  rain  wi'  Mrs.  Maynard 


But  that  is  precisely  where  Mrs.  Lacey  thinks  Mr. 
Morrell  is  mistaken.  She  has  nothing  whatever  against 
Mrs.  Maynard,  who  is  a  young  widow,  but  she  would 
like  to  know  a  little  more  about  the  late  Mr.  Maynard 
before  admitting  her  to  unreserved  intimacy.  Mrs. 
Maynard  has  not  quite  the  figure  a  "  Mrs."  ought  to 
have,  and  does  more  bathing  than  swimming  (if  you 
understand  me).  That's  an  accomplishment  she 
learned  at  Ostend  (for  if  Mr.  Ashton,  the  London  agent, 
is  metropolitan,  Mrs.  Maynard  brings  quite  a  cosmopoli- 
tan air  to  Llanyglo).  The  misses  Euonyma  and 
Wygelia,  on  the  other  hand,  learned  to  swim  at  Brigh- 
ton, walking  to  the  bathing-place  in  a  crocodile.  You 
see  the  difference.  Brighton  is  not  Ostend,  any  more 
than  Llanyglo  is  either,  and  Mrs.  Lacey  considers  that 
you  can't  be  too  careful.  .  .  .  That's  Mrs.  Maynard, 
with  her  back  to  the  oncoming  breaker.  Her  bathing- 
dress  is  quite  complete,  as  complete  as  Mrs.  Garden's, 


156  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

drying  outside  her  tent  there;  but  Mrs.  Lacey  disap- 
proves of  those  twinkling  scarlet  ribbons.  She  consid- 
ers them  to  be  little  points  of  attraction,  that  do  all  that 
is  asked  of  them,  and  more.  She  prophesied  that  the 
red  would  "  run  "  in  the  water,  but  it  didn't,  and  that 
makes  matters  rather  worse,  for  if  Mrs.  Maynard  knows 
as  well  as  that  which  red  will  run  and  which  won't  she 
is  practised 

And  those  two  graceful  but  rather  skinned-rabbit- 
looking  young  shapes  in  the  gleaming  navy-blue  cos- 
tumes with  the  white  braid  are  the  girls. 

$"ow  we're  among  the  castles.  Quite  a  horde  of  chil- 
dren, and  very  pretty  children  too,  with  their  spades 
and  buckets  and  their  petticoats  bunched  up  inside 
striped  knickers  (those  too  you  get  at  Gruffydd's). 
That's  Gilbert  Smythe,  the  Medical  Officer,  the  tall 
shaggy  man  carrying  the  bucket  of  water  for  the  little 
boy's  moat.  He'll  be  giving  Llanyglo  its  bathing  testi- 
monial too.  Don't  tread  on  that  seaweed ;  it  may  be  a 
castle  garden,  or  a  sea-serpent,  or  anything  else  in  the 
child's  imagination.  .  .  .  There  are  the  boys  trying  to 
launch  the  collapsible  boat.  John  Willie  hasn't  grown 
much;  he  won't  be  a  tall  man;  but  he's  filling  out. 
That  minx  Mrs.  Maynard  makes  quite  a  lot  of  him,  and 
says  she  likes  the  feel  of  his  fine-spun  hair.  Whether 
John  Willie  likes  her  to  feel  it  or  not  he  does  not  betray. 

Now  for  Howell  Gruffydd's.  .  .  . 

There  you  are.  "  THE  LLAIs^YGLO  STORES," 
in  big  gold  letters  right  across  the  front  of  the  two 
cottages.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ? 

Yes  in  one  way  and  another,  there  must  be  a 
largish  sum  sunk  in  "  stock."  Whether  Howell's  buy- 
ing on  credit  or  not  I  don't  know,  but  he  looks  prosper- 


THE  CURTAIN  KAISER 

cms;  he's  had  his  beard  trimmed,  and  he  wears  a  new 
hat.  Green  butterfly-nets  and  brown  and  white  and 
grey  sandshoes  —  spades  and  buckets  and  balls  and 
fishing-lines  and  toy  ships  —  bottles  of  scent  and  the 
"  Llanyglo  Sunburn  Cure  "  (made  up  for  him  by  the 
chemist  at  Forth  Neigr)  —  a  new  board  with  "  Tri- 
cycles for  Hire  "  on  it  (that's  the  shed  at  the  back,  and 
Eesaac  Oliver,  home  for  the  holidays,  books  the  hirings 
and  does  the  repairs)  —  baskets  and  spirit-kettles  and 
ironmongery,  all  in  addition  to  the  groceries. —  Yes, 
Howell  has  quite  a  big  business  now.  Let's  go  inside 
and  buy  something. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Gruffydd ;  papers  in  yet  ?  No  ? 
I  thought  I  saw  Hugh  coming  down  the  Sarn  road  half 
an  hour  ago.  Yes,  a  lovely  day.  How's  Eesaac 
Oliver?  Still  at  Forth  Neigr?  .  .  .  No,  no,  I  know 
he's  home  for  his  holidays;  I  saw  him  driving  Mr. 
Pritchard's  hay-cart  yesterday ;  I  mean  when  is  he  going 
to  Aberystwith  ?  .  .  .  Next  year  ?  Good !  He'll  make 
his  mark  in  the  world !  —  Mr.  Garden  been  in  this 
morning  yet?  .  .  .  He's  driving  in  the  mountains? 
Well,  there's  always  a  breeze  in  the  mountains.  .  .  . 
No,  serve  Mrs.  Roberts  first.  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Rob- 
erts?" 

Howell  still  sells  Mrs.  Roberts  her  pennyworth  of  bi- 
carbonate of  soda,  and  with  the  same  smile  as  ever,  but 
he  could  do  without  her  custom  now.  Look  round. 
Crates  of  eggs  (the  Trwyn  hens  can't  keep  pace  with 
the  demand  now),  great  Elizabethan  gables  of  tinned 
fruits  and  salmon,  a  newspaper  counter,  the  Post  Office 
behind  the  wire  grating  there,  strings  of  things  hanging 
from  the  ceiling,  scarcely  an  inch  of  Edward  Garden's 
matchboarding  to  be  seen,  and  three  assistants,  all  busily 
weighing,  packing,  checking,  snipping  the  string  off  on 


158  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

the  little  knives  on  the  wooden  string-boxes,  and  passing 
the  parcels  to  the  boys  with  the  hand-carts.  But  we 
ought  to  have  been  here  a  couple  of  hours  ago.  Mrs. 
Briggs  and  Mrs.  Lacey  and  Mrs.  Garden  were  giving 
their  orders  for  the  day  then.  They  come  every  morn- 
ing, rings  on  their  fingers  and  bells  on  their  toes,  high 
heels  and  flounced  parasols  and  all  the  lot,  and  Howell 
doesn't  have  it  all  his  own  way  then,  I  can  tell  you. 
For  this  is  where  our  ladies  are  really  efficient.  They 
may  never  dream  of  travelling  otherwise  than  first-class, 
but  they  know  the  price  of  everything  to  a  halfpenny 
and  a  farthing.  There's  no  "  If  'twill  do  'twill  do  " 
about  them  when  it  comes  to  the  management  of  a  house. 
And  when  Hilda  Morrell  grows  out  of  the  stage  of  wish- 
ing her  father  would  talk  "  like  other  people,"  the 
chances  are  that  she'll  discover  too  that  this  is  her  real 
strength,  as  it  was  her  mother's.  Mrs.  Maynard  comes 
in  with  them  of  a  morning  sometimes,  and  tells  them 
how  tre-men-dously  clever  she  thinks  them,  to  know  the 
differences  between  things  like  that,  and  vows  that  her 
tradesmen  rob  her  right  and  left  because  she  hasn't  been 
properly  brought  up;  and  then  Mrs.  Briggs,  putting 
down  the  egg  she  is  holding  to  the  light,  cries,  "  Eh,  it's 
nothing,  love  —  I  could  learn  you  in  a  month !  " 

But  Mrs.  Lacey  detects  a  secret  sarcasm  in  the  phrase 
about  the  bringing-up. 

And  the  men  will  be  in  for  their  newspapers  presently. 

Now  a  stroll  to  the  hotel,  and  just  a  peep  at  them 
by  and  by  as  they  have  lunch.  .  .  . 

This  is  the  hotel  lounge.  The  varnish  is  quite  dry, 
though  it  doesn't  look  it.  A  dozen  little  round  tables, 
chairs  heavily  upholstered  in  crimson  velvet,  festoons 
of  heavy  gilt  cord  on  the  curtains,  and  that's  the  service- 


THE  CURTAIN  KAISER  159 

hatch  in  the  corner.  The  waiters  are  rather  melan- 
choly; you  see,  it  isn't  a  public-house;  everything  goes 
down  on  the  residents'  bills ;  and  that  means  fewer  tips. 
Tea  is  served  here  in  the  afternoon,  but  of  course  the 
ladies  never  dream  of  tipping.  Those  excellent  pur- 
chasers work  out  everything  at  cost  price,  omit  such 
items  as  interest  on  capital,  insurance,  depreciation, 
and  so  on,  and  find  a  shilling  for  two  pennyworth  of 
bread  and  butter,  a  twopenny  cake,  and  a  pinch  of  two- 
shilling  tea  with  hot  water  thrown  in,  tip  enough. 

"Ting  I     Ting  I     Ting  I" 

It  is  Val  Clayton,  ordering  another  drink  for  himself 
and  his  two  friends.  He  drinks  vermouth,  his  friends 
bottles  of  beer.  Val  drinks  vermouth  because  it  is 
foreign  (he  runs  over  to  Paris  frequently,  and  travels 
to  Egypt  for  Clayton  Brothers  and  Clayton),  and  per- 
haps he  makes  love  to  Mrs.  Maynard  (if  you  can  call 
it  making  love)  because  she  too  is  almost  a  continental. 
Since  Mrs.  Maynard  is  to  be  seen  in  her  red  ribbons, 
you  might  expect  to  find  Val  on  the  beach  instead  of 
drinking  vermouth  in  the  hotel  lounge;  but  that  is  far 
from  being  "  in  character  "  when  you  know  Val.  The 
world's  pleasures  a  little  in  excess  have  already  set  their 
mark  on  Val.  He  will  tell  you  that  he  would  not  miss 
his  morning  drink,  "  not  for  the  best  woman  living." 
Others  may  fetch  and  carry  for  their  hearts'  mistresses, 
but  not  Val.  In  the  afternoon,  perhaps,  if  he  feels  a 
little  less  jaded,  in  a  hollow  of  the  sandhills  and  with 
the  warm  sun  to  help,  Val  may  bestir  himself  a  little, 
but  in  the  meantime  he  wants  another  vermouth. 

"  Ting  I  Ting  I  Ting!  —  They  want  to  have  French 
waiters  here,"  Val  grumbles.  "  I  never  mind  tipping 
a  waiter  if  I  can  get  what  I  want  when  I  want  it.  Wai 
—  oh,  you've  come,  have  you?  Well,  since  you  are 


160  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

here,  you  may  as  well  bring  these  again,  and  then  see  if 

the  papers  have  come  in  yet " 

"  And  bring  me  a  box  of  Egyptian  cigarettes." 

"  No  —  hi !  —  don't    bring    those    cigarettes. —  You 

don't  want  to  smoke  the  rubbish  they  sell  here.     Pill 

your  case  out  of  this  —  I've  a  thousand  upstairs  I 

brought  from  Cairo  myself " 


"  Oh !  .  .  .  Thanks. —  Well,  as  I  was  saying 


And  the  speaker  (who  might  as  well  be  in  Manches- 
ter for  all  he  sees  of  Llanyglo,  at  any  rate  in  the  morn- 
ings) resumes  some  narrative  that  the  replenishing  of 
the  glasses  has  interrupted. 

Now  the  others  are  dropping  in,  those  who  like  one 
aperatif  before  lunch  but  not  half  a  dozen.  Their 
wives  have  gone  upstairs  to  tittivate  themselves.  The 
velvet  chairs  fill;  extra  waiters  appear;  and  a  light 
haze  ascends  from  cigars  and  cigarettes  to  the  roof. 
Listen  to  the  restrained  hubbub. 

"  Waiter !  Ting!  Waiter ! "  and  then  a  slight 

gesture ;  the  waiters  are  supposed  to  know  the  tastes  of 
the  real  habitues  by  this  time;  (it  counts  almost  as  a 
"  score "  if  the  waiter  brings  your  refection  without 
your  having  as  much  as  opened  your  mouth  to  ask  for 
it). — "The  usual,  sir  —  yes,  sir  —  coming!"  And 
again  they  are  talking,  not  on  subjects,  but  as  if  the  act 
of  talking  were  itself  subject  enough.  Philip  Lacey 
discusses  with  Mr.  Ashton  the  improvement  in  the 
Harwich-Hook  of  Holland  crossing,  and  Mr.  Morrell 
exchanges  views  on  Local  Government  with  Raymond 
Briggs.  "Ting!  ting!  You  haven't  cassis?  Then 
why  haven't  you  cassis  ?  " — "  Very  sorry,  sir  —  coming, 
sir !  " — "  What's  happened  to  the  newspapers  this  morn- 
ing ?  " — "  Of  course,  if  it  goes  to  arbitration " — 

"  Nay,  John,  don't  drown  t'  miller!  "  "  Ten  o'clock, 


THE  CURTAIN  RAISER  161 

first  stop  Willesden "  "  Your  very  good  health,  Mr. 

Morrell "  "  Debentures "  "  New  heating  in 

both  greenhouses " — "  Same  again,  Val  ?  " — 

"Ting!"— 

"  BOO-0-O-OOM-M-MMMMM ! " 

It  is  the  luncheon  gong. 

Just  a  glance  as  they  sit  at  table.  Don't  you  think 
it's  a  pleasant  room  ?  Three  tall  windows  looking  out 
on  the  sea,  noiseless  carpet,  ornaments  on  the  sideboards 
rather  like  wooden  broccoli,  but  the  decorations  straight 
from  London.  But  those  two  large  chandelier  gas- 
brackets don't  work  yet ;  the  plant  isn't  installed ;  that's 
why  the  red-shaded  oil-lamps  are  placed  at  intervals 
down  the  T  of  tables.  The  older  folk  gather  round  the 
head  of  the  T,  and  down  the  stalk  stretch  the  children. 
These  will  rise  before  their  parents,  just  as  they  go  out 
of  Church  after  the  Second  Lesson ;  they  will  break  off 
just  below  John  Willie  Garden  and  the  Misses  Euonyma 
and  Wygelia  there  —  who,  by  the  way,  are  more  usually 
called  June  and  Wy.  The  flowers  are  chosen  to  "  last 
well,"  for  Llanyglo  is  almost  as  short  of  flowers  as  it  is 
of  trees ;  but  the  linen  and  plate  and  other  appointments 
are  all  good  —  these  actors  in  Llanyglo's  little  fore-piece 
are  not  accustomed  to  roughing  it,  even  on  a  holiday. 

As  I  told  you  they  would,  half  the  women  have 
changed  their  frocks.  Mrs.  Lacey  is  a  pink  hollyhock 
now,  of  which  her  daughters  seem  cuttings,  and  her  hat 
is  a  sort  of  pink  straw  kepi,  trimmed  with  flowers  that 
resemble  Virginia  stock.  She  sits  at  the  end  of  one  arm 
of  the  T,  with  her  back  to  the  window.  Near  her  is 
Mrs.  Briggs,  in  stamped  electric-blue  velvet  —  her  fore- 
arms, on  which  bracelets  shiver,  are  as  uniform  in  con- 
tour from  whatever  point  you  look  at  them  as  if  they 


162  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

had  been  turned  in  a  lathe.  The  Misses  June  and  Wy 
also  wear  bracelets,  from  which  depend  bundles  of  six- 
pences, a  sixpence  for  each  of  their  birthdays,  sixteen 
for  Wiggie,  fourteen  for  June.  John  Willie  is  lunch- 
ing with  Percy  Briggs  to-day,  who  lunched  with  him 
yesterday.  Next  to  his  chair  is  an  empty  one.  It  is 
Mrs.  Maynard's,  who  has  not  come  down  yet.  Then 
comes  Val  Clayton.  Over  all,  with  his  napkin  tucked 
into  his  collar  as  if  he  had  prepared,  not  for  a  lunch, 
but  for  a  shave,  Mr.  Morrell  presides. 

For  some  reason  or  other,  lunch  always  begins  a 
little  stiffly ;  but  they  unbend  as  they  go  on.  At  present 
Raymond  Briggs  cannot  get  away  from  the  subject  of 
the  newspapers  and  their  unaccountable  lateness. 

"  Can't  understand  it,"  he  says  for  the  fifth  or  sixth 
time. 

"  And  they  were  late  last  Wednesday  —  no,  Thurs- 
day —  no,  I  was  right,  it  was  Wednesday." 

"  Was  it  Wednesday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  day  it  looked  like  rain ;  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes ;  the  day  it  cleared  up  again." 

"  All  but  a  drop  or  two  —  nothing  to  hurt " 

A  pause. 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  there's  anything  in  them." 

"  Speaking  for  myself,  I  don't  care  a  button.  I 
don't  want  to  see  the  newspapers.  *  No  letters,  no  news- 
papers,' I  always  say  when  I  go  away." 

"  A  real  country  holiday,  eh  ?  " 

"  Change  and  rest  —  those  are  the  great  things." 

"  You're  right.  Complete  change.  No  trouble  about 
how  you  dress  nor  what  you  eat.  That's  the  best  of 
this  place." 

"  Still,  if  the  newspapers  are  coming  we  may  as  well 
know  when  they  are  coming." 


THE  CURTAIN  RAISER  163 

"  They  ought  to  have  a  man,  not  that  young  boy." 

"  Hugh  Morgan  ?  " 

"  Is  that  his  name  ?     There  are  so  many  Morgans." 

"  Common  Welsh  name." 

"  Met  another  boy,  I  expect." 

"  Boys  are  all  alike." 

"  Not  a  pin  to  choose  among  'em." 

"Wish  I  was  behind  him  with  a  stick  for  all 
that." 

"  Another  glass  of  wine,  Mr.  Ashton  ?  "  .  .  . 

Then  there  enters  with  a  little  commotion,  and  trips 
half  running  to  the  empty  chair  between  John  Willie 
Garden  and  Val  Clayton,  Mrs.  Maynard.  She  wears  a 
big  black  hat  swathed  in  black  tulle,  and  her  dress  is  of 
black  lace,  with  close  sleeves  that  reach  to  the  middle 
knuckles  of  her  taper  fingers.  She  shakes  out  the  mitre 
of  her  napkin  and  breaks  forth  to  Val  as  she  settles  in 
her  chair. 

"  My  horrid  hair !  "  she  pouts ;  "  it  always  takes  me 
three-quarters  of  an  hour !  Really,  I  shall  have  to  stop 
bathing,  but  I  do  love  it  so.  It  seems  a  kind  of  fate ;  I 
always  have  to  give  up  the  things  I  love !  " 

Hereupon  Val  —  or  perhaps  vermouth,  since  Val 
seems  a  little  astonished  at  his  own  gallantry  —  sud- 
denly replies  that  if  he  were  like  that  he  would  have  to 
give  up  Mrs.  Maynard.  If  Mrs.  Maynard  also  is  a 
little  surprised  she  covers  it  with  great  readiness. 

"  Oh,  now  the  dreadful  man's  beginning  again !  "  she 
cries.  ' "  If  you  will  say  those  things,  Mr.  Clayton,  I 
shall  have  to  change  places  at  table !  " 

Mr.  Clayton  asks  here  what  is  wrong  with  her  hair. — 
"  I  think  it's  champion,"  he  adds.  "  Very  nice  in- 
deed," he  adds  once  more. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you !  "     (As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs. 


164  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Maynard's  hair  is  rather  wonderful,  dark,  and  so  long 
that  she  can  sit  on  it.)  "  No  fish,  thank  you,"  she  says, 
with  a  smile  to  the  waiter. 

Then  Mrs.  Lacey's  firm  voice  is  heard.  "  Can  any- 
body tell  me  whether  there  have  heen  many  wrecks  on 
this  coast  ? " 

The  person  best  qualified  to  give  this  information  is 
John  Willie  Garden,  but  Mrs.  Maynard  has  turned  to 
John  Willie,  and  is  asking  him  whether  he  does  not 
think  she  swims  rather  nicely.  Her  tendril-like  fingers 
are  again  stroking  his  hair.  Mrs.  Lacey  considers  Mrs. 
Maynard's  tulle-swathed  hat  the  ostentation  of  modesty 
and  the  coquetry  of  mourning  (if  she  is  in  mourning), 
and,  getting  no  answer  to  her  question  about  the  wrecks, 
invents  a  name  for  Mrs.  Maynard :  "  Mrs.  Maynard 
—  as  she  calls  herself."  Plates  are  changed,  corks  pop, 
and  from  time  to  time  a  seltzogene  gives  a  spurt  and  a 
cough.  Raymond  Briggs  explains  that  he  is  fond  of 
strawberries,  but  strawberries  are  not  fond  of  him. 
The  chatter  grows  louder. 

"  I  took  her  as  a  kitchen-maid,  but  she  turned  out 
quite  a  good  plain  cook " 

"  Oh,  like  a  top  —  as  Dr.  Smythe  says,  it's  the  air." 

"  Oh,  I  prefer  it  rustic ;  like  this !  " 

"  Quite  so  —  the  first  tripper  and  I'm  off !  " 

"  So  I  opened  her  box  myself ;  and  there  they  were, 
if  you  please  —  four  silver  spoons ! " 

"  Now,  June,  you  and  Wy  talk  French  —  you  haven't 
talked  it  for  days " 

"  John's  booked  the  rooms  for  next  year  al- 
ready   " 

"  Oh,  1/is-ter  Clayton !  I  never  promised  any  such 
thing!" 

"  They  can  talk  it  if  they  like,  as  fast  as  a  mill " 


THE  CURTAIN  RAISEE  165 

"  If  I  were  you  I  should  see  Tudor  Williams  about 
it " 

"  You  can  put  on  your  oldest  things  and  there's 
nobody  to  see  you " 

"  But  really  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  go  about  the 
fright  I  do! " 


"  But  that's  a  new  dress  ? 


"New!  —  Last    year  —  but    it's   good    enough    for 

here " 

"  Can't  manage  those  double-1's " 

"  Gutturals " 

"  Llan  —  Thlan  —  Lan " 


"  June,  your  legs  are  younger  than  mine  —  run  and 
get  Aunt  May's  letter  out  of  my  dressing-table 
drawer " 

"Mrs.  Smythe?  .  .  .  The  best  thing  for  the  baby, 
of  course,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  that  not  quite  so 
publicly " 

"  Oh,  I  always  let  Percy  suck,  whoever  was 
there! " 

"  John  will  have  his  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the 
day " 

"  Smythe  ?  Oh,  one  of  the  nicest  fellows,  but  no 
push,  I'm  afraid " 

"  That's  his  failing " 

"  Where  he  misses  it " 

"  Extraordinary " 

"  Well,  some  men  are  born  like  that " 

"Wait  for  things  to  come  to  them  instead  of  going 
to  fetch  them " 

"  Up  t'  Trwyn  ?  We'll  talk  about  it  after  I've  had 
my  forty  winks.  I  must  have  my  forty  winks  after  my 
dinner." 

"  Lunch,  William." 


166  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"  Lunch,  then." 

"  He  will  call  it  his  dinner " 

"  It  is  my  dinner " 

Then  Mr.  Morrell  makes  a  signal,  the  younger  ones 
troop  out,  breaking  into  loud  shouts  the  moment  they 
are  clear  of  the  room.  They  are  off  to  the  beach  again. 
Shall  we  follow  them  ?  .  .  . 

What  do  the  Welshmen  think  of  it  all?  It  suits 
Howell  Gruffydd's  book,  as  you  see,  and  Howell  has 
pacified  John  Pritchard  with  the  promise  of  Bazaars; 
but  the  others  ?  Dafydd  Dafis,  say  ? 

Again  nothing  is  going  right  for  Dafydd.  He  feels 
that  another  friend  has  changed  towards  him  —  Min- 
etta,  to  whom  he  used  to  sing  Serch  Hudol,  and  tell  his 
stories  of  fays  and  water-beings  and  knights,  and  make 
much  of  for  her  elfin  looks  and  quick  and  un-Saxon  ways. 
For  Minetta  is  already  displaying  the  artist's  heartless- 
ness,  and  does  not  see  the  sorrow  in  Dafydd's  eyes,  but 
only  what  sort  of  a  "  head  "  he  has  from  her  special 
point  of  view,  and  how  he  will  "  come  "  upon  a  piece 
of  paper.  She  tried  to  draw  Dafydd  only  the  other 
day,  and  ordered  him,  half  absently,  to  turn  his  head 
this  way  and  that,  and  grew  petulant  when  her  drawing 
went  all  wrong,  and  suddenly  cried  "  Don't  look  at  me 
like  that !  "  when  Dafydd  turned  his  eyes  on  her  with 
a  tear  in  the  corner  of  each.  Poor  Dafydd !  He,  like 
the  Squire,  would  be  better  out  of  all  this  swiftly  on- 
coming change.  .  .  . 

But  Dafydd,  who  is  of  the  phrase-making  kind,  has 
made  out  of  his  sadness  a  phrase  that  more  or  less  repre- 
sents the  attitude  of  every  Welshman  in  Llanyglo.  He 
watched  all  these  people  coming  in  ones  and  twos  and 
threes  out  of  the  hotel  one  morning  and  walking  down  to 


THE  CURTAIN  RAISER  167 

their  deck-chairs  and  bathing-tents  on  the  beach.  He 
stood  for  a  while,  looking  at  the  gay  parterre  of  sun- 
shades and  summer  clothes,  of  kites  and  spades  and 
buckets,  and  rings  on  fingers  more  carefully  tended  but 
of  coarser  stuff  than  his  own.  And  he  listened  to  the 
accents  that  even  his  alien  ear  told  him  were  strained 
and  affected  and  false.  And  he  gave  them  a  half  con- 
temptuous and  half  pitying  look  as  he  turned  away. 

"  These  summer  things"  he  said.  .  .  . 

But  Howell  Gruffydd  has  Dafydd  Dafis's  measure 
also,  and  takes  it,  just  as  he  took  John  Pritchard's,  in  a 
single  word. 

"  Eisteddfodau,"  he  whispered  to  Dafydd  behind  his 
hand.  .  .  . 

For  they  may  by  and  by  be  advertising  Llanyglo  by 
means  of  an  Eisteddfod,  and,  as  long  as  he  is  allowed  to 
play,  Dafydd  does  not  greatly  care  who  he  plays  to  nor 
whether  they  understand  him  or  not. 


IV 

YNYS 

came  one  day  at  about  that  time  a  Welsh 
gipsy  fortune-teller  to  Llanyglo.  Her  name  was 
Belle  Lovell,  she  was  a  known  character  all  over  the 
countryside,  and  she  was  some  sort  of  a  connection  of 
Dafydd  Dafis's.  There  was  always  a  packet  of  tobacco 
for  her  in  the  Squire's  kitchen  when  she  appeared,  and 
her  companion  on  her  travels  was  her  thirteen-years-old 
daughter  Ynys.*  Belle  sold  baskets  and  mended  chairs, 
and  Ynys  drew  the  cart,  which  was  no  more  than  a  large 
deal  packing-case  mounted  on  four  perambulator  wheels, 
and  with  two  flat  shafts  roughly  nailed  to  its  sides. 
The  mother's  boots,  which  you  might  have  hit  with  a 
hammer  and  not  have  dinted,  resembled  grey  old  wooden 
dug-outs ;  the  child  went  barefooted  and  barelegged,  and 
it  would  have  been  a  stout  thorn  that  could  have  pierced 
the  calloused  pads  of  her  hardened  soles. 

These  two  appeared  at  Llanyglo  at  midday,  ate  their 
frugal  meal  on  the  doorstep  of  Dafydd's  single-roomed 
cottage  behind  the  Independent  Chapel,  and  then,  leav- 
ing the  cart  behind  them,  strolled  down  to  have  a  look 
at  that  splendacious  new  caravan,  Howell  Gruffydd's 
shop.  Belle,  her  greenish  light  brown  eyes  never  for  a 
moment  still,  gossiped  with  her  old  acquaintances;  her 
daughter,  whose  head  was  as  steadily  held  as  if  she 
balanced  an  invisible  pitcher  on  it,  stood  looking  at  the 

*Pron.  "Unnis." 

168 


YNYS  169 

green  butterfly-nets  and  red-painted  buckets,  admiring, 
but  no  more  desiring  them  than  she  would  have  desired 
anything  else  impossibly  beyond  her  reach.  Her 
mother  joined  a  group  about  Mrs.  Roberta's  door;  the 
visitors,  who  had  lunched,  began  to  descend  to  the 
beach  again;  and  there  approached  down  the  path  that 
led  to  the  Hafod  Unos  Ned,  the  oldest  of  the  Kerrs. 

Now  Ned  had  run  across  Belle  on  many  alder-expe- 
ditions, and,  while  the  invasion  of  "  summer  things  " 
had  not  driven  Ned  into  naturalisation  as  a  Welshman, 
it  had,  by  emphasising  the  distinction  between  the  well- 
to-do  and  the  poor  of  the  world,  shown  him  how  to  jog 
along  in  peace  with  his  neighbours.  He  gave  Belle  an 
intelligent  grin,  and  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  bathing-tents. 

"  Well,  mother,"  he  said,  "  ye've  dropped  in  at  just 
about  th'  right  time." 

"  There  iss  no  wrong  time  for  seeing  friends,"  Belle 
replied,  in  an  up-and-down  and  very  musical  Welsh 
accent. 

"  Nay,  I  wanna  thinking-g  o'  that,"  Ned  replied, 
strongly  doubling  the  "  g  "  that  terminated  the  present 
participle.  "  I  wor  thinking-g  of  a  bit  o'  fortune-tell- 
ing. There's  a  lot  ower  yonder  wi'  more  brass  nor 
sense,  and  it  allus  tickles  'em  to  talk  about  sweethearts 
an'  sich." 

"  Indeed  Llanygio  has  become  grea-a-at  big  place, 
whatever,"  the  gipsy  replied,  and  continued  her  conver- 
sation with  Mrs.  Roberts. 

And  presently,  whether  she  took  the  hint  or  whether 
she  had  come  precisely  for  that  purpose,  Belle's  greenish- 
brown  eyes  roved  again,  she  made  a  slight  gesture  to 
Ynys,  who  had  turned  from  the  butterfly-nets  and  was 
looking  out  to  sea,  and  the  pair  of  them  made  off  along 


170  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

the  beach  in  the  direction  of  that  bright  plot  of  colour 
that  made  as  it  were  a  herbaceous  border  between  the 
grey-green  tussocks  and  the  glittering  sea. 

For  a  hundred  yards  Belle's  dug-outs  left  behind  her 
a  heavy  shuffling  track  in  the  sand,  parallel  with  the 
light  kidney-shaped  prints  of  the  child  who  walked  as 
if  she  carried  an  invisible  pitcher  on  her  head ;  and  then, 
with  the  cluster  of  tents  and  parasols  still  far  ahead, 
they  stopped.  John  Willie  Garden  and  Percy  Briggs, 
with  Eesaac  Oliver  Gruffydd  ready  to  bear  a  hand  if 
called  upon  to  do  so,  but  otherwise  a  little  fearful  of 
intruding,  were  victualling  the  blue-and-white  collapsible 
boat  for  a  cruise.  But  it  was  not  in  order  to  tell  the 
fortunes  of  the  three  boys  that  Belle  stopped.  She 
stopped  for  the  same  reason  that  the  street-seller  pulls 
out  his  rattle  or  his  conjuring  trick,  while  his  quick- 
silver eyes  dart  this  way  and  that  in  search  of  his  crowd. 
The  only  difference  was  that  Belle  was  her  own  conjur- 
ing-trick.  The  gesture  with  which  she  performed  it 
was  superbly  negligent.  She  had  a  wonderful  old  mig- 
nonette-coloured shawl,  which,  when  she  had  talked  with 
the  group  about  Mrs.  Roberts's  doorstep,  had  been  drawn 
up  over  her  head;  and  suddenly  she  allowed  it  to  fall 
to  her  shoulders.  The  effect  might  well  have  carried 
twice  the  distance  it  was  intended  to  carry.  Out  of  the 
folds  of  the  shawl  her  neck  rose  as  erect  as  the  pistil  of 
an  arum  lily.  Against  it  gleamed  her  heavy  gold  ear- 
rings. Her  cheekbones  and  the  nodule  of  her  high  nose 
gleamed  like  bronze,  and  about  the  whorl  of  the  spring- 
ing of  her  hair  at  the  back  of  her  head  the  sunshine  made 
as  it  were  a  sun-dog  on  the  lustrous  blackness.  Her 
silver  wedding-ring,  an  old  tweed  jacket  that  might 
have  belonged  to  her  kinsman  Dafydd  Dans,  and  a 
patched  old  indigo  petticoat,  completed  the  legerdemain. 


YNYS  171 

Ynys,  clad  to  all  appearances  in  a  single  garment  only, 
watched  the  boys  exactly  as  she  had  watched  the  balls 
and  butterfly-nets  and  buckets  outside  Howell  Gruffydd's 
shop. 

They  too  made  a  shining  coup  d'oeil.  There  was 
just  swell  enough  to  set  the  long  breakers  hurdling  in, 
and  wind  enough  to  take  the  tops  off  them  in  rattling 
showers  of  brilliant  spray.  Indeed  it  was  so  merry  a 
sea  that,  not  half  an  hour  before,  Mrs.  Maynard  had 
declared  to  John  Willie  that  she  had  come  within  an  ace 
of  drowning  during  her  bathe  that  morning,  and  had 
asked  him  whether,  had  he  seen  her  in  difficulties,  he 
would  have  come  to  her  rescue.  "  Mmmmm,  John 
Willie  ?  "  she  had  asked,  curling  his  hair  with  her  per- 
fumed fingers;  but  John  Willie,  seeing  Percy  Briggs 
approaching,  had  jerked  away  his  head.  This  had  not 
been  because  he  had  been  afraid  of  being  laughed  at 
by  Percy.  For  that  matter,  Percy  had  confided  to  John 
Willie  only  a  week  before  that  he  "  liked  their  Minetta," 
and  so  was  in  no  position  to  jeer  at  the  softer  relations. 
!Nb;  it  had  merely  been  that,  as  Llanyglo's  curtain  had 
risen,  suddenly  revealing  a  soft  and  alluring  group  of 
Euonymas  and  Wygelias  and  Hildas,  not  to  speak  of 
Mrs.  Maynard  herself,  all  temptingly  set  out  like  fruit 
upon  a  stall,  the  curtain  of  John  Willie  Garden's  pe- 
culiar privacy  had  come  down  with  a  run.  Mrs.  May- 
nard was  always  trying  to  peep  behind  it,  but  probably 
there  was  nothing  behind.  Probably  that  was  the 
reason  it  had  come  so  sharply  and  closely  down.  No  boy 
wants  to  show  that  he  has  nothing  to  show. 

Smack !  —  A  bucketful  of  spray  drenched  the  stores, 
and  the  wave  ran  hissing  and  creaming  back  under  the 
counter  of  the  blue-and-white  boat.  John  Willie 
shouted  rather  crossly  to  Eesaac  Oliver. 


1Y2  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"Pull  her  up  a  bit,  can't  you,  instead  of  standing 
there  doing  nothing !  " 

Eesaac  Oliver  started  to  life  and  obeyed.  He  was 
rather  a  fetcher  and  carrier  for  these  more  happily 
circumstanced  boys,  but  privately  he  knew  himself  to 
be  in  some  things  their  superior.  To  tell  the  truth, 
Eesaac  Oliver  knew  just  a  lee-tie  too  much  about  what 
went  on  within  himself,  and  communicated  it  just  a  lee- 
tie  too  readily  to  others.  For  he  dropped  no  curtain ;  on 
the  contrary,  the  windows  of  his  soul  were  flung  wide 
open.  The  experience  of  the  world  he  had  acquired  at 
the  school  at  Forth  Ueigr  had  already  caused  him  to  de- 
clare himself  as  being  thenceforward  powerfully  on  the 
side  of  the  angels ;  and  that  ingenious  educational  exer- 
cise which  consists  of  speaking  extempore  on  any  subject 
given  only  a  moment  ago  had  a  lee-tie  abnormally  de- 
veloped certain  natural  powers  of  expression  which  his 
race  rarely  lacks.  Had  Mrs.  Maynard  attempted  to 
stroke  Eesaac  Oliver's  hair  (which  was  thick  and  black, 
and  rose  in  a  great  lump  in  front,  falling  thence  in  a 
lappet  over  his  pale  forehead),  he  would  either  have 
cried  "  Apage !  "  or  else,  suffering  the  seduction,  would 
have  undergone  torments  of  remorse  afterwards. 

Therefore  it  was  with  a  meek  dignity  that  Eesaac 
Oliver  bore  a  hand  with  the  boat,  and  then  fell  back  and 
a  little  enviously  watched  again. 

Then  that  crafty  and  stately  piece  of  legerdemain  of 
Belle's  had  its  reward.  In  his  rippling  cream  alpaca, 
there  approached  along  the  sands  Mr.  Morrell  himself, 
and  Belle's  neck  no  longer  resembled  the  pistil  of  an 
arum  lily.  She  bent  ingratiatingly  forward;  as  if  a 
key  had  clicked,  a  dazzling  smile  cut  her  face  into  two ; 
and  after  a  jocular  word  or  two  Mr.  Morrell  bore  her 
off,  Ynys  following.  Let  us  follow  too. 


YNYS  173 

Do  look  at  the  contrast  —  those  summer  things,  and 
the  two  wanderers  in  whom  all  the  seasons  are  ingrained ; 
carefully  veiled  and  sunburn-cured  complexions,  and 
these  other  vagrants,  brown  as  the  upturned  earth;  the 
indefatigable  maintenance  of  artificial  attitudes  even 
before  one  another,  and  the  grave  ease  of  the  child,  the 
deliberate  gesture  with  which  the  mother  looses  as  it  were 
in  the  sheath  the  only  weapon  she  has  against  the 
world.  .  .  .  Frith's  "Derby  Day?"  Yes,  it  is  a  little 
like  it;  but  listen.  Mrs.  Maynard,  with  a  sparkling 
glance  about  her  that  says  "  Mum,"  has  slipped  off  her 
wedding-ring,  and  Belle  has  taken  her  hand.  It  is  slim 
as  a  glove  that  has  never  been  put  on,  and  Mrs.  Maynard 
intends  to  trip  Belle  if  she  can. 

So,  when  Belle  begins  to  promise  Mrs.  Maynard  a 
husband  who  shall  be  such-and-such,  there  are  winks 
and  glances  and  nudges,  as  much  as  to  say  that  now  they 
are  going  to  have  some  fun,  and  Mr.  Morrell  says, 
"  Here,  ho'd  on  a  bit,  mother  —  how  do  you  know  she 
isn't  married  ? " 

If  Belle  shows  the  knife  for  a  moment,  she  does  it  so 
delicately  that  nobody  notices  it. 

"  If  the  prit-ty  lady  was  married,  her  man  he  srink 
a  ring  upon  her  finger,  red-hot,  as  they  srink  a  tyre 
on  a  cart-wheel,"  Belle  replies ;  and  the  reading  of  Mrs. 
Maynard's  palm  continues. 

Mrs.  Lacey,  a  pale  blue  hollyhock,  looks  as  if  she 
pooh-poohed  the  whole  thing;  but  inwardly  she  is  a- 
tremble  with  eagerness  to  have  the  fortunes  of  her  two 
daughters  told.  As  it  happens,  no  sooner  is  Mrs.  May- 
nard's  hand  dropped  than  Mr.  Morrell,  who  happens 
to  be  standing  next  to  June,  catches  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Come  on,  June,  and  be  told  how  to  get  a  husband !  " 
he  cries,  and  he  slips  a  shilling  into  Belle's  hand. 


MUSHROOM  TOWN 

June  will  never  be  prettier  than  she  is  now.  She  is 
indeed  very  pretty  —  apple-blossom  and  cream,  bright- 
haired,  freshly  starched,  back  straight  and  elbows  well 
down,  and  as  glossy  from  top  to  toe  as  the  broad  mauve 
ribbon  of  her  sash.  Soon  she  will  be  as  tall  as  her 
mother;  already  she  is  taller  than  her  father,  the  land- 
scape-gardener; and  the  thought  of  whether  she  will 
marry  or  not,  and  whether  brilliantly  or  otherwise, 
never  enters  her  head.  Of  course  she  will  marry,  and 
of  course  her  marriage  will  be  a  brilliant  one.  "  Mar- 
riage "  and  "  brilliant  marriage  "  are  one  and  the  same 
thing.  In  this,  as  in  most  other  things,  Wygelia  is  of 
the  same  opinion  as  June.  A  close  understanding, 
which  has  not  yet  outgrown  the  form  of  surreptitious 
kicks  under  the  table,  and  private  and  abbreviated  words, 
exists  between  the  two  sisters.  Other  things  being 
equal,  they  would  probably  prefer  to  marry  two  broth- 
ers. 

"  I  tell  the  prit-ty  miss  a  harder  thing  than  that  —  I 
tell  her  how  to  keep  her  man  when  she  has  got  him," 
Belle  replied  amid  laughter;  and  she  proceeds  to  de- 
scribe June's  husband.  He  is  to  come  over  the  water 
(landing  at  Newhaven,  Mrs.  Lacey  instantly  concludes, 
and  taking  the  first  train  to  the  Boarding  School  at 
Brighton),  and  he  shall  be  devoted  to  her,  and  she  shall 
have  such-and-such  a  number  of  children.  (Mrs.  Lacey 
straightens  her  back ;  this  is  something  like ;  her  grand- 
father, whom  she  remembers  quite  well,  was  June's 
great-grandfather,  and  will  have  been  the  great-great- 
grandfather of  June's  boys  and  girls,  which  is  getting 
on,  especially  when  you  remember  the  younger  sons  and 
grandsons  of  somebodies,  who  are  estate-bailiffs  and 
engine-drivers  and  carriers  of  milk-cans  in  the  Colonies. ) 
When  June's  fortune  is  finished  all  applaud  her,  as  if 


YNYS  175 

she  had  performed  some  feat  of  skill,  and  then  Mr. 
Morrell  seizes  Wy. 

"  Come  on,  Wy  —  no  hanging  back  —  let's  see  what 
sort  of  a  fist  Wy's  going  to  make  of  it " 

And  Wy  also  is  haled  forward,  blushing  and  conscious 
and  biting  her  lip,  and  is  told  that  for  her  too  some- 
body is  languishing,  and  that  presently  he  will  drink  out 
of  her  glass  and  thenceforward  think  her  thoughts,  which 
are  already  complex.  And  Hilda's  palm  is  read,  and 
little  Victoria  Smythe's  fat  one,  and  Val  Clayton's,  and 
others,  and  silver  rains  into  Belle's  palm.  Chaffingly 
Mr.  Morrell  offers  her  a  sovereign  for  her  takings,  un- 
counted, but  is  refused.  Then  Mrs.  Briggs  "  wants  the 
boys  done,"  and  somebody  is  despatched  along  the  shore 
for  Percy  and  John  Willie,  and  as  they  arrive,  bear- 
ing their  bottles  of  milk  and  parcels  of  jam-sandwiches 
(for  the  blue-and-white  boat  had  been  paid  off),  there 
comes  up  also  Minetta,  carrying  her  sketching-kit.  She 
stands  peering  at  Ynys,  more  as  seeing  in  her  a  subject 
than  as  at  a  fellow-being. 

So,  idly  and  laughingly,  an  hour  of  the  summer  after- 
noon passes;  and  then  an  accident  mars  its  harmony. 
John  Willie  and  Percy,  feeling  the  pangs  of  thirst,  had 
drunk  their  milk  and  had  then  set  up  the  bottle  as  a 
mark  to  throw  stones  at ;  and  Ynys,  walking  down  to  the 
sea-marge,  has  set  her  foot  upon  a  piece  of  the  broken 
glass.  Unconcernedly  she  bathes  the  cut  in  the  salt 
water. 

But  as  the  laughing  group  breaks  up,  and  her  mother 
calls  her  again,  the  blood  wells  out  once  more,  dabbling 
with  a  dark  stain  those  light  kidney-shaped  prints  in  the 
sand.  Mrs.  Garden  and  Mrs.  Briggs  see  the  child's 
plight  simultaneously.  It  is  a  cruel  gash,  and  the  two 
ladies  utter  loud  cries. 


176  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"  Nay,  nay,  whatiwer  in  the  world ! "  cries  Mrs. 
Briggs,  all  of  her  that  is  not  pure  mother  suddenly  be- 
coming pure  Hunslet.  "  Nay,  nay !  Come  here, 
doy! " 

She  and  Mrs.  Garden  kneel  down  before  the  gipsy 
child,  and  a  dozen  others  gather  round.  Cries  of  sym- 
pathy break  out. 

"T  poor  bairn! » 

"What  a  mess!"  » 

"  How  did  she  do  it  ?  " 

"  John  Willie,  quick,  run  and  get  the  kettle  from  the 
picnic-basket " 

"  Indeed,  lady  dear,  it  iss  noth-thing " 


"  Quick,  Hay,  give  me  your  handkercher  too " 

Yny's  foot  is  bathed  in  fresh  water  from  the  picnic- 
kettle,  and  bound  up  with  Mrs.  Briggs's  tiny  lace  hand- 
kerchief, with  Raymond's  large  one  over  it  to  secure  it. 
The  blood  has  already  come  through  before  the  tying  is 
finished.  And  you  forget  the  false  accents  and  the  elab- 
orate pretences  of  these  "  summer  things  "  of  Llanyglo's 
little  preliminary  piece,  and  remember  only  the  better 
things  that  lie  beneath  them.  They  flatter  Ynys,  and 
encourage  her  with  admiring  words. 

"  She's  a  very  brave  little  girl,  anyway !  " 

"  What  did  you  say  her  name  was  ?  " 

"  Ynys." 

"Well  done,  Ynys!     Soon  be  well " 

"  John  Willie,  I've  told  you  about  throwing  stones 
at  bottles  before  —  get  you  home  till  I  come " 

"  And  you  too,  Percy  Briggs ;  and  you  dare  to  stir 
out  till  I  tell  you !  " 

"  Don't  cry,  little  girl " 

Ynys  has  no  thought  whatever  of  crying.  She  makes 
no  more  motion  than  a  pine  makes  when  it  bleeds  its 


YNYS  177 

gouts  of  resin  in  the  spring.  But  they  continue  to  com- 
fort her. 

"  She'll  never  be  able  to  walk  like  that !  " 

"  Better  fetch  Gilbert  Smythe." 

"  June,  you  run " 

"  Here's  half  a  crown  for  you,  Ynys,  for  being  a 
brave  little  girl." 

Then  Minetta,  who  has  been  conferring  with  Belle, 
speaks. — "All  right,  mother,  she's  to  come  home  with 
us ;  I'm  going  to  paint  her." 

"  There,  now,  Ynys,  you're  going  to  be  painted ! 
Won't  that  be  fun!" 

"  And  if  she  ever  comes  to  Liverpool  and  asks  for  me," 
says  Philip  Lacey,  "  I'll  see  she's  all  right.  Yes,  I  will. 
She  shall  sell  flowers.  That'll  be  better  than  going 
about  barefoot  and  getting  her  poor  little  foot  cut,  won't 
it?" 

But  at  that,  for  the  first  time,  the  child  seems  to 
see  and  to  hear.  Her  eyes,  greenish-brown  and  deep 
like  her  mother's,  look  into  Philip  Lacey's  small  but 
kindly  ones  as  if  she  had  not  seen  him  before.  The  half- 
crown  Philip  has  given  her  is  still  tightly  clasped  in  her 
hand,  but  then  half  crowns  are  things  that  do  sometimes 
visit  people  precisely  like  that.  And  she  knows  that 
they  have  some  mystic  power  or  virtue  by  means  of 
which  they  can  buy  things  —  green  butterfly-nets  and 
red-painted  buckets ;  but  Ynys  can  not  quite  understand 
the  people  who  can  sell  these  wondrous  things  for  mere 
half-crowns.  .  .  .  Then  she  realises  again  that  somebody 
has  just  said  something  about  selling  flowers.  .  .  . 

They  are  promising  her  that  if  she  is  a  brave  little 
girl  and  lets  Doctor  Smythe  dress  her  foot  she  shall  one 
day  sell  flowers.  .  .  . 

Sometimes,  meeting  Belle  Lovell  and  her  daughter 


178  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

upon  the  road,  the  one  with  her  loops  of  cane  upon  her 
back  and  the  other  drawing  the  cart  made  of  the  deal 
box  mounted  upon  perambulator  wheels,  you  will  give 
them  good-day  and  pass  on;  and  then,  five  minutes  or 
so  afterwards  perhaps,  you  will  be  conscious  of  an  almost 
noiseless  pattering  behind  you,  and  will  turn.  It  is 
Ynys,  holding  out  to  you  a  little  posy  of  hedge-flowers. 
She  may  not  refuse  your  penny  for  them;  indeed  she 
will  not;  but  you  are  not  to  suppose  that  it  is  for  the 
penny  that  she  has  brought  you  the  nosegay.  The  poor 
sticky  little  thing  is  unpurchasable.  You  would  have 
got  it  just  the  same  had  you  been  as  poor  as  herself. 


PART  THREE 


THE   HOLIDAY    CAMP 

THE  writer  of  the  Sixpenny  Guide  to  Llanyglo  and 
Neighbourhood,  in  speaking  of  the  rise  of  the 
town,  made  use  of  an  obvious  image  which  we  will  take 
leave  to  borrow  from  him.  "  Thenceforward,"  he  wrote, 
"  Llanyglo  sprang  up  as  if  by  magic  out  of  the  soil 
itself." 

Indeed  it  did  something  like  it.  Watching  it,  you 
would  have  thought  of  one  of  Philip  Lacey's  gardens  in 
the  short  days  before  Spring  had  begun  to  warm  the  air. 
Neat,  bare,  brown,  friable  soil,  with  not  yet  a  crocus  or 
a  snowdrop  to  be  seen ;  here  and  there  a  stick  with  a  tiny 
linen  tab  fluttering  (reminding  you  of  Terry  Armfield's 
little  "  Keep  off  the  Grass "  board  with  "  Delyn  Ave- 
nue "  written  upon  it)  ;  frames  half  open  and  inverted 
bells,  dibbing-strings,  sprinklings  of  lime,  and  a  few 
whirligigs  to  keep  the  birds  away ;  these,  and  the  promise 
of  the  scent  and  colour  to  come  —  it  did  indeed  resemble 
Llanyglo.  Not  all  at  once  did  the  pea-sticks  become 
builders'  scaffold-poles,  the  lines  of  string  the  plotting- 
out  of  streets.  As  of  Philip's  gardens,  you  could  not 
have  said  of  Llanyglo  on  any  particular  day,  "  This  has 
changed  more  than  it  was  changing  yesterday,  more 

than  it  will  be  again  changing  to-morrow."     But  for  all 

179 


180  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

that,  nothing  remained  any  longer  the  same.  Philip's 
men,  working  over  the  blindfold  earth  with  clay  and 
spittle,  caused  its  lids  to  open ;  Edward  Garden  and  his 
associates,  similarly,  with  money  for  manure,  labour 
to  let  in  the  air  and  light,  and  the  gentle  airs  of  adver- 
tisement already  fanning  an  incipient  repute,  made  a 
garden  of  stone  and  iron,  with  buds  of  stucco,  flowers  of 
paint  and  glass  and  gilding,  and  fruit  after  its  kind  to 
ripen  by  and  by. 

Humanity  was  the  soil  he  worked  on,  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  it  the  force  with  which  he  did  so.  Its  hopes  and 
appetites,  its  need  of  noise  and  change  and  laughter,  its 
stretching  itself  after  fetters  struck  off  and  its  resolve 
to  have  a  better,  a  much  better  time  than  it  had  ever  had 
before  —  out  of  these  things  came  Edward  Garden's 
beds  and  borders.  He  would  grow  flowers  of  pleasure 
for  those  of  the  towns  to  pick.  And,  since  you  do  not 
advance  the  glory  of  July  by  neglecting  to  make  the  most 
of  March,  his  crops  also  had  their  rotation.  For  this,  in 
a  manner  of  speaking,  was  Llanyglo's  March,  and  what 
though  it  lasted  two,  three,  four  years  2  The  Laceys 
and  the  Raymond  Briggses  were  to  be  cultivated  while 
they  were  yet  there.  Blooming  and  falling  again,  they 
would  make  an  excellent  preparation,  and  there  was 
plenty  to  do  in  the  meantime.  There  were  other  hotels 
to  build,  and  a  wet-weather  pavilion  for  tea  and  talk  and 
dancing,  and  a  landing-stage  for  the  twenty  new  boats, 
and  this  and  that  and  the  other  —  and  always,  always, 
the  coming  full  summer  to  look  forward  to,  the  summer 
of  ten,  eleven,  twelve  years  thence,  the  summer  when, 
not  the  Laceys,  but  the  employees  of  their  fourteen  or 
fifteen  shops  should  talk  of  Llanyglo ;  the  summer  when 
Mr.  Morrell  should  come  no  more,  but  his  operatives 


should  draw  their  thousands  from  the  Clubs  and  rain 
them  upon  the  town;  the  summer  when  all  should  be 
changed  but  the  steadfast  Trwyn,  and  all  different  save 
the  mountains  behind,  and  nothing  the  same  save  the  still 
and  watching  sea. 

The  Sarn-Porth  ISTeigr  Loop  was  constructed  in 
1886-7,  and  opened  in  the  May  of  the  last-named  year. 
One  of  its  earlier  trains  brought,  in  a  first-class  compart- 
ment, Philip  and  Mrs.  Lacey  and  the  Misses  June  and 
Wygelia,  fresh  from  Paris ;  and  in  a  third-class  compart- 
ment it  brought  a  family  called  Topham.  Mr.  Topham 
was  head-clerk  in  a  Liverpool  Irish-bacon-importing 
concern,  and  Philip  Lacey,  meeting  him  once  or  twice 
at  Philharmonic  Promenade  Concerts,  had  forgotten  the 
golden  rule  that  it  is  easier  to  get  into  conversation  with 
a  man  than  it  is  to  shake  Kim  off  again,  and  had  fallen 
into  the  habit  of  nodding  to  him.  In  fact,  a  sort  of 
acquaintanceship  had  been  struck  up.  He  had  learned 
Topham's  name,  and  Topham  his.  All  this  had  been  in 
Liverpool. 

But  it  was  one  thing  to  strike  up  an  acquaintanceship 
in  Liverpool,  and  quite  another  to  continue  that  acquaint- 
anceship elsewhere.  Philip  Lacey,  seeing  Barry  Top- 
ham  get  into  the  train,  had  not  doubted  that  the  bacon- 
importer's  clerk  would  be  dropping  off  again  after  a  few 
stations.  But  at  Stockport,  where  Philip  had  descended 
to  stretch  his  legs,  Topham  had  met  him  on  the  platform 
and  had  informed  him  that  he  was  going  to  Llanyglo. 

Now  when  Philip  went  away  for  a  few  weeks'  change 
he  liked  that  change  to  be  a  change.  He  didn't  come  to 
Llanyglo  to  meet  casuals  from  Liverpool. 

He  began  to  wonder  whether  Llanyglo  was  quite  what 
it  had  been. 


182  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

And  so  did  Mr.  Morrell,  who  brought,  his  daughter 
Hilda  from  Brighton  that  year. 

And  so  did  Val  Clayton,  who  also  came  that  year, 
merely  in  order  to  see  what  sort  of  vermouth  they  sold 
at  the  other  hotels. 

For  soon  there  were  three  hotels,  the  original 
"  Cambrian,"  the  "  Cardigan,"  and  the  "  Montgom- 
ery." All  these  were  on  what  by  and  by  became  the 
front,  and  between  the  "  Cambrian  "  and  the  "  Cardi- 
gan "  was  a  space  of  perhaps  a  couple  of  hundred  yards. 
Thence  to  the  "Montgomery,"  however,  was  quite  a 
walk  for  Val  of  a  morning  —  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  more 
on  towards  the  Trwyn.  Of  the  three  hotels  the  "  Mont- 
gomery "  was  the  largest.  It  had  sixty  bedrooms.  Its 
stabling  (for  there  was  now  a  landau-service  up  into  the 
mountains)  blocked  up  one  of  Terry's  dream-avenues  a 
hundred  yards  from  where  the  easy  marble  steps  were  to 
have  descended  to  the  shore.  A  wide  metalled  road  ran 
past  the  three  hotels,  but  it  reminded  you  of  unexplored 
rivers  on  an  ancient  map,  which  are  traced  for  a  score  or 
a  hundred  miles,  and  then  dissipate  in  interrogative  dots. 
Another  road  at  right  angles  ran  past  the  Kerrs'  Hafod 
to  the  gap  opposite  Pritchard's  farm,  and  there  were  yet 
other  roads,  if  those  widish  alleys  bounded  by  stakes  and 
wire  could  properly  be  called  roads.  When  the  wind 
rose  the  sand  still  whistled  everywhere,  scouring  paint, 
rounding  wooden  corners,  stinging  faces;  but  so  far  it 
had  made  very  little  impression  on  a  large,  black,  tarred 
notice-board  firmly  stayed  into  the  sand  midway  between 
the  "  Cardigan  "  and  "  Montgomery  "  hotels,  a  board 
bigger  than  the  whole  front  of  the  Kerrs'  Hafod,  which 
bore  a  straggling  plan  upon  it  in  white,  and  the 
words : 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  183 

LEASEHOLD ! 
For  99 9  Years! 
Lots  as  Under: 


Apply 


To  tell  the  truth,  Llanyglo  was  now  rather  a  dreary- 
looking  place.  They  had  broken  its  sylvan  eggs,  but 
had  hardly  yet  begun  the  making  of  its  urban  omelette. 
The  above-mentioned  announcement  was  not  the  only 
one  of  its  kind ;  there  was  another  halfway  between  the 
Kerrs'  house  and  Pritchard's,  and  a  third  at  Pritchard's 
corner.  These,  it  was  known,  awoke  faint  and  distant 
echoes  in  little  paragraphs  in  Manchester  and  Liverpool 
papers.  The  Company  so  far  was  a  private  one;  it 
hardly  knew  yet  what  powers  it  might  presently  expect 
to  possess ;  but  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  and  others  were  find- 
ing out.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  were  rather  anxious 
about  these  powers.  An  Act  of  Parliament  two  years 
before  had  seemed  to  promise  them  certain  things  that 
might  prove  immensely  to  their  advantage;  but  of  the 
two  great  Local  Government  Acts  (of  1888  and  1894), 
the  first  was  still  in  a  plastic  state,  and  the  second  not 
yet  thought  of.  Hitherto  Porth  Neigr  had  been  the 
centre  of  administration;  it  was  now  being  sought  to 
shift  that  centre.  And,  with  the  cumbrous  old  machin- 
ery of  Boards  of  Guardians  and  Poor  Law  Overseers  out 
of  the  way,  Howell  Grufl'ydd,  it  was  whispered,  might 
before  long  become  a  Councillor.  Indeed,  who  would 
make  a  better  one?  Edward  Garden?  Edward  Gar- 


184  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

den  preferred  to  depute  powers  of  this  kind.  The 
Laceys  and  Briggses,  on  a  property  qualification? 
These  had  their  own  affairs  to  attend  to,  and  were  sum- 
mer residents  only.  John  Pritchard  ?  Stern  John,  as 
unchallenged  ruler  of  the  Baptist  Chapel,  was  already 
a  Councillor  in  a  deeper  sense  than  that  defined  by  any 
mundane  Act.  William  Morgan?  Not  substantial 
enough.  John  Roberts  ?  Dafydd  Dafis  ?  The  Squire  ? 
—  The  claims  of  all  of  them  paled  before  that  of 
Howell  Gruffydd  the  grocer.  .  .  . 

The  leases  were  being  taken  up  too.  The  Llanyglo 
Pavilion,  Limited,  was  incorporated  before  a  spade  was 
set  in  the  sand.  The  great  blackboard  between  the 
Kerrs'  house  and  Pritchard's  Corner  bore  a  significant 
diagonal  paper  strip  with  four  fifteen-inch  letters  in 
red  upon  it  —  SOLD.  Negotiations  were  proceeding 
for  the  acquisition  of  the  land  at  the  Corner  itself. 
And  Edward  Garden  had  completed  that  rumoured  pur- 
chase of  his  far  up  in  the  mountains.  It  was  a  "  catch- 
ment area  "  for  water,  and  if,  under  the  new  distribu- 
tion, the  Council  should  find  itself  possessed  of  large 
borrowing-powers,  it  might  possibly  find  the  private 
ownership  of  those  hundreds  of  acres  far  away  up  Delyn 
an  awkward  matter. 

And  the  excavation  was  already  being  made  for  the 
TOW  of  houses  that  later  was  known  as  "  Ham-and-Egg 
Terrace  " —  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  building  that 
at  first  awed  Llanyglo  by  its  grandeur,  but  which  they 
subsequently  came  to  think  a  poor  affair  and  did  their 
best  to  conceal. 

It  was  only  partly  for  a  holiday  that  those  first  visitor- 
discoverers  came  to  Llanyglo  now.  Considerations  of 
business  had  begun  to  play  a  part  in  their  coming.  Mr. 
Morrell,  for  example,  had  sunk  quite  a  lot  of  money  in 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  185 

the  place,  and  liked  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  interests. 
Philip  Lacey  pored  over  a  dozen  sketch-drafts  of  his 
Floral  Valley,  a  project  for  converting  a  coombe  or  dean 
that  clove  one  portion  of  the  Trwyn  into  an  ornamental 
arrangement  of  flower-beds  with  a  bandstand  in  the 
centre.  And  Raymond  Briggs  mused  on  houses  and 
hotels,  on  hotels  and  more  and  yet  more  houses.  For 
these  Llanyglo  was  no  longer  simply  a  place  "  delight- 
fully rural,"  a  place  "  where  you  could  dress  as  you 
liked,"  a  place  for  "  a  real  rustic  holiday."  It  was  the 
Tophams  who  made  these  discoveries  and  bestowed 
these  encomiums  now. 

Whether  or  not  Barry  Topham  dressed  as  he  liked, 
he  certainly  dressed  as  the  Briggses  and  the  Laceys  dis- 
liked. At  the  Promenade  Concerts  his  appearance  had 
been  just  decently  unremarkable;  alas,  it  was  so  no 
longer !  Now,  in  the  country,  he  broke  out  into  a  loose 
tweed  jacket,  knickers  made  of  a  pair  of  long  trousers 
of  striped  cashmere  cut  down,  low  shoes,  a  flannel  shirt, 
no  hat,  and  a  tightly  knotted  red  tie,  this  last  as  a 
voucher  for  the  socialism  that,  Philip  Lacey  discovered 
to  his  horror,  he  talked  in  and  out  of  season.  He  was 
a  small,  bearded,  wiry  man  of  forty-four  or  five,  who 
gave  you  a  curious  impression  of  ferocity  and  mildness 
mingled.  The  mildness  was  perhaps  due  to  his  bolt- 
upright  shock  of  frightened-looking  sandy  hair,  the 
ferocity  to  the  pince-nez  marks  on  either  side  of  his 
nose  that  gave  his  glance  a  concentrated  look.  His  wife 
did  not  appear  to  dress  (you  cannot  call  mere  conceal- 
ment of  the  person  "dressing")  until  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  and  his  two  daughters,  aged  nineteen  and 
twenty-one,  were  school-teachers,  less  buxom  than  Miss 
ISTancy  Pritchard,  but  more  professionally  eager,  as  if 
all  the  vital  force  in  them  had  gone,  not  to  the  waste  of 


186  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

mere  pleasant  flesh,  but  into  the  severer  regions  of  the 
mind. 

This  taking  of  Llanyglo  at  its  word  in  the  matter  of 
dress  was  bad  enough,  but  worse  was  to  come. 

Scarcely  were  the  Tophams  installed  at  the  "  Mont- 
gomery "  when  it  became  known  that,  though  they  had 
appeared  to  come  alone,  they  were  merely  an  advance 
party.  Two  days  later  the  main  body  arrived,  and 
Llanyglo  experienced  its  first  social  slump. 

The  party  called  itself  a  Holiday  Camp.  It  was  a 
union  of  two  semi-secular,  semi-Nonconformist  Insti- 
tutions whose  idea  of  having  a  better  time  than  their 
fathers  had  had  was  to  botanise,  to  geologise,  to  read, 
and  to  discuss  these  activities  afterwards  in  whirlwinds 
of  communal  talk.  Strictly  speaking,  they  did  not 
"  camp  "  at  all :  they  put  up  at  the  "  Montgomery  " ; 
but  they  had  camped,  hoped  to  camp  again,  and  called 
their  more  convivial  gatherings,  when  studies  were  cast 
aside,  Pow-Wows. 

They  overran  the  place  instantaneously.  You  met 
them  with  their  brown  canvas  satchels  and  japanned 
tin  specimen-cases,  poking  about  up  the  Trwyn  or 
groping  in  the  boggy  patches  about  Sam.  They  were 
to  be  met  in  the  lanes,  carrying  picnic  paraphernalia. 
They  lighted  fires  of  driftwood  on  the  shore,  which 
coatless  young  men  blew  while  the  young  women  combed 
their  hair  out  in  the  sun.  And  wherever  they  went  a 
little  red  rash  went  with  them,  the  rash  of  the  small 
red-backed  book,  Sir  Thomas  More's  Utopia,  of  which 
the  contagion  had  raged  among  them.  Not  that  they 
had  not  books  of  other  hues  also.  They  had  Hugh 
Miller's  Old  Red  Sandstone  in  green,  and  Selected  Say- 
ings of  Marcus  Aurelius  in  brown,  and  others  in 
various  colours;  but  it  was  the  red  that  struck  the  eye 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  187 

at  the  greater  distance.  They  and  the  books  were  insep- 
arable. The  unmarried  ones,  sharing  a  book  between 
them,  seemed  already  to  be  creating  that  sage  commun- 
ity of  intellectual  interest  that,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
comes  in  so  very  handy  when  the  first  fires  of  love  have 
become  less  devouringly  hot;  the  married  ones,  with  a 
book  apiece,  kept  the  calm  connubial  ideal  before  the 
maids'  and  bachelors'  eyes.  .  .  .  And  it  was  all  exceed- 
ingly disquieting  and  difficult  to  understand.  One 
hoped  that  the  books  were  portals  into  high  and  fair  and 
spacious  places,  but  feared  that  they  might  be  but 
pathetic  posterns  of  escape  from  the  world's  weary 
drudgery  that  has  got  to  be  done  and  that  therefore 
somebody  must  do.  One  had  struggles  of  compunction 
and  abasement  and  doubt,  and  the  humiliating  feeling 
that  some  clean  and  heathery  and  wind-swept  place  of 
the  mind  was  being  invaded  to  sadly,  sadly  little  pur- 
pose. One  tried,  desperately  tried,  to  tell  oneself  that 
if  poor  lame  Harry  Stone  got  one  single  half-hour's  joy 
out  of  it  all,  nothing  else  mattered;  and  then  one  won- 
dered whether  even  this  was  true.  It  is  hard  to  be 
social  over  an  anti-social  thing.  ...  So  one  bore, 
humble  heart  and  arrogant  heart  alike,  each  his  portion 
of  Education's  shame. 

The  coming  of  the  Montgomeryites  acted  instantane- 
ously. Within  an  hour  of  their  issuing  from  their 
sixty-bedroom  hotel,  the  Cambrians  and  their  deck- 
chairs  and  bathing-tents  had  drawn  a  little  more  com- 
pactly together  on  the  sands.  Certainly  the  Cambrians 
did  not  see  why  they  should  take,  intellectually,  a  second 
place  to  these  loftily  and  botanically  thinking  ones, 
merely  because  they  chose  to  pay  a  little  attention  to 
appearances  also.  Moreover,  the  fact  that  the  Reading 
Party  had  come  to  Llanyglo  only  for  a  fortnight  filled 


188  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

the  Briggses  and  the  Laceys  with  a  certain  compassion. 
This  was  not  compassion  that  the  ecstacies  with  which 
a  zoophyte  was  discovered,  or  the  glad  cries  with  which 
a  bit  of  sundew  was  hailed,  must  be  such  transient  joys. 
It  was  rather  compassion  that  the  Montgomeryites 
should  find  the  place  pristine.  Llanyglo  "  pristine  " 
—  now !  .  .  .  "  Ah,"  they  thought,  "  they  wouldn't 
think  that  if  they'd  known  it  as  we  knew  it  —  two 
houses  and  a  single  hotel  only !  "  .  .  .  The  thought 
opened  a  vista.  Perhaps,  in  time  to  come,  these 
Utopians  would  tell  others  how,  when  they  first  set  eyes 
on  Llanyglo,  the  place  had  not  begun  to  be  spoiled,  but 
had  had  three  hotels  only,  a  dozen  or  so  houses,  Ham- 
and-Egg  Terrace,  and  a  blackboard  here  and  there  that 
had  emphasised  rather  than  detracted  from  its  virgin 
charm.  And  these  others  would  pass  it  on  to  others 
still,  and  so  it  would  go  on,  and  so,  in  one  sense,  Llany- 
glo would  never  grow.  There  would  always  be  some- 
body who  had  known  it  before  somebody  else,  and  would 
say,  "  Ah,  yes,  but  you  ought  to  have  seen  it  then!  "  . . . 
Well,  thought  the  Cambrians,  perhaps  it  was  a  good 
thing.  To  have  inferiors  is  one  of  the  great  solaces  of 
Life,  and  they  supposed  that  the  Tophams  also  had  their 
inferiors.  Perhaps  some  day  a  tripper  would  look 
even  on  Philip  Lacey's  Floral  Valley  with  much  the 
same  shock  of  delight  with  which  Eve  opened  her  eyes  on 
the  dew  of  Eden.  .  .  . 

A  sorely  tried  man  now  was  Philip.  Sadly  he 
lamented  the  evening  that  had  taken  him  and  Barry 
Topham  to  the  same  Philharmonic  Concert  in  Liver- 
pool. For  the  starched  and  hotpressed  ones  of  the 
"  Cambrian,"  though  they  did  not  openly  say  so,  held 
him  as  in  a  manner  responsible  for  this  inferior  spilling 
all  over  their  idyllic  place.  They  seemed  to  be  trying 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  189 

to  make  out  that  the  Tophams  were  Philip's  chosen 
friends.  Philip  felt  this  to  be  unfair.  It  was  an  acci- 
dent that  might  have  happened  to  anybody,  and  Philip's 
views  on  culture  and  the  multitude  were  every  bit  as 
sound  as  Raymond  Briggs's  own.  And  as  Philip  did 
not  intend  to  be  sat  upon  by  Raymond  Briggs  or  any- 
body, he  acted  well,  nay,  even  nobly.  He  had  recog- 
nised Topham;  very  well.  He  had  not  positively  en- 
couraged the  fellow,  but  say  that  certain  narrow-minded 
persons  wished  to  make  it  appear  that  he  had  done  so ; 
well  again.  He  would  stand  by  what  he  had  done.  He 
would  ask  the  Tophams  to  dinner  at  his  hotel. 

He  did  so,  and  took  the  disastrous  consequences. 
For  the  Tophams  came,  and,  with  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
"  Cambrian  "  upon  them,  behaved  for  all  the  world  as 
if  they  had  been  dining  at  their  own  inferior  Liberty 
Hall  of  a  "  Montgomery."  So  at  least  it  seemed  to 
Philip,  and  bad  enough  surely  that  would  have  been; 
but  Mrs.  Lacey  made  it  far,  far  worse.  It  was  plain 
as  plain  could  be  (she  said  afterwards)  that  the  Top- 
hams'  sprawls  and  freedoms  were  all  put  on,  and  that 
they  had  been  like  four  fishes  out  of  water  every  minute 
of  the  time  —  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  show- 
ing them  up  before  everybody's  eyes  like  that!  .  .  . 
"  Come  as  you  are,"  Philip  Lacey  had  said,  with  the 
truest  delicacy,  since  it  was  very  unlikely  that  the  Top- 
hams  had  brought  evening  clothes  to  their  Camps  and 
Pow-Wows ;  and  so  nobody  dressed.  The  "  Cam- 
brian's "  tables  were  no  longer  arranged  in  the  form  of 
a  T.  With  the  installation  of  gas,  numerous  smaller 
tables,  with  a  couple  of  large  oval  ones  among  them, 
had  taken  its  place,  and  at  one  of  the  oval  tables  the  four 
Laceys  and  the  four  Tophams  sat.  Mr.  Lacey  was  at 
one  end,  with  Mrs.  Topham  on  his  right,  Mrs.  Lacey 


190  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

was  at  the  other  end  with  Mr.  Topham  on  her  right. 
At  the  sides  sat  the  younger  ones,  a  Topham  and  a 
Lacey  on  either  side.  This  was  not  the  happiest  of 
arrangements,  since  young  ladies  who  have  just  "  fin- 
ished "  in  Paris  usually  think  they  have  seen  enough 
of  school-teachers  for  some  time  to  come,  but  it  was  the 
best  that  could  be  managed.  Nor  could  Miss  June  kick 
Miss  Wy  under  the  table. 

The  discord  showed  from  the  very  first  moment. 
The  Laceys,  as  urbane  hosts,  would  have  kept  to  such 
light  and  frothy  conversational  matters  as  how  the  Top- 
hams  liked  Llanyglo,  whether  they  had  been  up  into  the 
mountains  yet,  and  similar  subjects ;  but  not  so  the  Top- 
hams.  Briefly,  they  went  for  the  eternal  verities  like 
four  steam-navvies.  Before  she  had  unfolded  her  nap- 
kin, Mrs.  Topham  had  Philip  Lacey  helpless  in  the  toils 
of  More's  Utopia,  and  by  the  time  she  had  asked  him 
half  a  dozen  searching  questions,  looking  mistrustfully 
at  him  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  dare  to  lie  to  me,  sir !  " 
the  unhappy  man  had  to  confess  that  it  was  some  time 
since  he  had  read  the  book,  and  that  his  textual  memory 
was  by  no  means  as  good  as  it  had  been.  A  second 
attack  rendered  him  abject.  The  third  was  not  deliv- 
ered. Seeing  him  such  a  rank  and  pitiable  outsider, 
Mrs.  Topham  contemptuously  spared  him. 

"  And  this  is  the  state  of  education  to-day !  "  she  said 
scornfully  to  her  husband  afterwards.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Topham,  in  the  meantime,  tackled  Mrs.  Lacey 
on  certain  problems  of  the  Distribution  of  Wealth, 
with  no  happier  results.  Quite  simply,  Mrs.  Lacey 
was  unaware  that  such  problems  existed  save  insofar  as 
they  were  included  in  the  specific  question  of  marriage- 
settlements  for  daughters.  She  scarcely  troubled  to 
answer  Mr.  Topham,  but,  glancing  from  June  and  Wy 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  191 

to  the  Misses  Amy  and  Norah  Topham,  lost  herself  in 
the  problems  of  the  Distribution  of  Proposals  instead. 
So  she  too,  from  the  point  of  view  of  those  who  carried 
Mill  and  Smith  in  their  pockets  and  read  these  inhuman 
authors  in  the  shade  of  the  crumbling  Dinas,  became 
an  outsider. 

But  worst  of  all  fared  the  Misses  June  and  Wy ;  for 
the  Topham  sisters  had  brought  with  them  from  Liver- 
pool a  holiday-pamphlet,  which  consisted  of  forty-two 
questions,  three  of  which,  daily  for  a  fortnight,  the 
holiday-maker  was  advised  to  ask  himself.  So: 

"  As  I  came  along  the  beach  this  afternoon,"  said 
Miss  Amy  to  June,  with  a  chatty  note  in  her  voice,  but 
the  enthusiasm  for  knowledge  smouldering  in  her  eyes, 
"  I  observed  great  quantities  of  seaweed.  To  what  uses 
are  seaweeds  put  ?  " 

And  said  Miss  Norah  to  Wy,  slightly  puckering  her 
shining  and  melon-like  forehead : 

"  One  of  the  boatmen  told  me  yesterday  that  in  the 
Spring  large  masses  of  the  vernal  squill  are  to  be  found 
upon  the  hills  near  here.  Why  is  this  ?  " 

Then  Miss  Amy  again: 

"  There  are  fine  examples  of  contorted  strata  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Trwyn.  Perhaps  you  or  your  sister 
can  tell  me  the  reason  why  these  strata  are  contorted  ?  " 

And  again  Miss  Koran : 

"  Who  was  Taliesin  ?  When  did  he  nourish  3  Tell 
me  anything  you  know  about  him." 

Dearly  would  June  and  Wy  have  liked  to  reply,  in  the 
words  of  Mrs.  Briggs  when  the  hotel-manager  had  looked 
at  her  boots,  "  Don't  if  it  hurts  you !  "  Wiggie  nick- 
lamed  Miss  Norah  Topham  "  The  Vernal  Squill "  on  the 
spot;  June,  a  phanerogam  herself,  dubbed  Miss  Amy 
"  The  Club  Moss." 


192  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

After  that  dinner,  there  was  nothing  for  Philip  Lacey 
to  do  but  to  live  his  indiscretion  down. 

But  if  this  was  the  "  Cambrian's "  attitude  to  the 
"  Montgomery,"  it  was  not  that  of  the  Welshmen  of 
Llanyglo.  These  were  now  more  in  number,  for  half 
the  staffs  of  the  three  hotels  were  Welsh,  and  others 
also  had  scented  prosperity  in  the  air.  Within  a  few 
hours  friendly  relations  had  been  established  between 
the  natives  and  the  readers  of  Utopia.  A  Welshman's 
eyes  will  always  sparkle  at  the  sight  of  a  book  or  other 
piece  of  the  apparatus  of  knowledge,  and  the  Montgom- 
eryites,  friendly  souls  all  and  ready  chatters  with 
whomsoever  they  met,  began  to  drop  into  Howell's  shop 
of  a  morning.  None  too  reluctantly,  they  suffered 
themselves  to  be  drawn  out  by  Howell  on  the  subjects  of 
their  studies,  and  then  it  was  that  Howell  became  a 
proud  man  indeed.  For  he  produced  Eesaac  Oliver, 
home  once  more  from  Aberystwith  College.  Without 
even  having  the  titles  given  to  him  as  he  came  in  at  the 
door  that  divided  the  shop  from  the  dwelling-rooms  be- 
hind, Eesaac  Oliver  swapped  them  book  for  book. 
Howell's  breast  swelled.  "  Blodwen  —  Blodwen  — 
come  quick !  "  he  called.  Then,  with  his  eyes  sparkling 
like  bits  of  mica  in  a  pebble  and  his  small  teeth  gleam- 
ing like  a  double  row  of  barley,  he  looked  fondly  on  the 
assembly  and  murmured,  "  Dear  me,  I  did  not  know 
till  to-day  there  wass  so-o-a  many  books  written !  "  One 
morning  Mrs.  Briggs  and  Mrs.  Garden  came  in  in  the 
very  middle  of  one  of  these  galas  of  the  intellect.  They 
were  kept  waiting  for  a  minute  and  more.  There  were 
times  when  the  Llanyglo  Stores  almost  resembled  a  De- 
bating Room. 

It  was  left  to  the  Misses  Euonyma  and  Wygelia  Lacey 
to  restore  the  balance  that  their  father's  luckless  dinner- 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  193 

party  had  disturbed;  and  right  well  they  laboured  to 
that  end.  They  brought  all  the  resources  of  Brighton 
and  Paris  to  bear  upon  those  two  amiable  but  indefati- 
gable school-teachers,  the  sisters  Topham.  They  did 
not  avoid  them;  on  the  contrary,  they  put  their  heads 
together  and  then  went  out  in  search  of  them.  Then, 
when  they  had  met  them,  they  asked  them  to  tell  them 
whether  it  was  true  that  the  guillemot  laid  its  blunt- 
ended  egg  in  order  that  it  should  not  roll  off  ledges, 
and  whether  the  person  who  said  that  serviceable  knife- 
handles  could  be  made  of  the  stems  of  the  Great  Oar 
Weed  had  been  correctly  informed.  And  when  they 
failed  to  come  upon  their  unsuspecting  victims,  they 
cathechised  one  another. 

"  As  I  was  ascending  the  mountains  the  other  day," 
June  would  suddenly  break  out  in  the  Vernal  Squill's 
raised  and  staccato  voice,  "  I  found  myself  walking 
upon  grass.  What  is  grass?  State  reasons  for  your 
answer." 

And  Wiggie,  assuming  the  viva  voce  examination 
tones  of  the  Club  Moss,  would  ask  her  sister  what  a  man 
was,  and  whether  Eesaac  Oliver  Gruffydd  could  prop- 
erly be  classed  as  one. 

Failing  the  turning  up  of  those  two  marriageable 
brothers,  the  Misses  June  and  Wy  were  likely  to  be 
what  Mrs.  Briggs  called  "  bad  to  suit." 

It  was  when  the  Z7£opta-readers  had  been  at  the 
"  Montgomery  "  rather  more  than  half  their  time  that 
the  first  bruit  went  abroad  of  the  jollification  that  pres- 
ently made  memorable  the  eve  of  their  departure.  Nor 
was  this  jollification  to  be  confined  to  their  own  set. 
All  (as  afterwards  at  the  Llanyglo  P.S.A.  Meetings) 
were  to  be  welcome.  The  project  was  talked  over,  at 
first  informally  at  the  Llanyglo  Stores,  afterwards  more 


194  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

seriously  at  the  "  Montgomery  " ;  and  a  few  days  later 
the  rumour  was  confirmed  by  print.  Eesaac  Oliver 
Gruffydd  and  Hugh  Morgan  distributed  a  number  of 
handbills,  thrusting  them  into  folk's  hands  in  the  stake- 
and-wire-enclosed  streets,  pushing  them  under  doors, 
and  even  entering  that  Reservation  on  the  shore  where 
the  Cambrians  sat  stiffly,  reading  their  novels,  toying 
with  their  fancy-work,  or  dozing  after  lunch.  Then,  on 
the  land-agents'  blackboards  and  in  the  windows  of  the 
Llanyglo  Stores,  larger  bills  appeared.  Large  bills  and 
small  alike  read  as  follows: 

Llanyglo  Holiday  Camp,  July,  18  8 Y. 

THE  AIGBURTH  STREET  AND  CHOW  BENT 

SQUARE  UNITED  READING  CIRCLES 

beg  to  announce  that  a 

GRAND  POW-WOW 

will  be  held  in  the  Dinas,  the  Trwyn,  Llanyglo, 

on 
Friday  Evening,  the  22nd,  at  8.30  sharp. 

BRING  YOUR  REFRESHMENTS! 
BRING  YOUR  VOICE  LOZENGES! 
BRING  YOUR  MUSIC! 
BRING  YOUR  LANTERNS! 
BRING  YOUR  FRIENDS! 

Visitors  and  Residents  alike  are  Welcome! 
Songs! !    Recitations!!!    Short  Speeches!!!! 

LADIES  SPECIALLY  INVITED! 

Grand  Chief:  Deputy  Grand  Chief: 

BARRY  TOPHAM,  Esqr.  HOWKLL  GRTJFFYBD,  Esqr. 

Committee : 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  195 

The  Proceedings  will  open  with  the  singing  of 

"  God  Save  the  People" 
and  will  close  with  "  Hen  Wlad  fy  NJiadau." 


EDWABD  JONES,  PBINTEB,  POBTH  NEIGB.  0616. 

"  Boy !  "  called  Raymond  Briggs,  as  Eesaac  Oliver, 
having  distributed  this  announcement  to  the  occupants 
of  the  Reservation,  was  passing  on ;  and  Eesaac  Oliver 
turned.  "  Pick  those  papers  up  at  once !  "  Raymond 
ordered,  pointing  to  a  litter  of  handbills  where  the 
wavelets  lapped  the  marge  of  seaweed.  Then,  over  his 
shoulder  to  Philip  Lacey,  who  reclined  almost  horizon- 
tally in  the  next  deck-chair :  "  Making  a  mess  of  the 
beach  like  that!  Paper  wherever  you  go;  they're  as 
bad  as  a  lot  of  trippers !  Can't  make  out  what  you  see 
in  that  fellow  Topham " 

Philip,  who  was  frowning  over  the  handbill,  spoke, 
also  over  his  shoulder. — "  You  going  to  this  ?  " 

Raymond  gave  a  short  laugh. — "  Me  ?  " 

It  was  almost  as  if  he  said,  "I  didn't  ask  them  to 
dinner,  my  dear  man!  I'm  perfectly  free  to  stop 
away !  " 

"  Good.  We'll  have  a  game  of  chess,  then,"  Philip 
replied  off-handedly.  He  could  give  Raymond  pawn 
and  move. 

Outside  the  Reservation,  however,  little  but  the  Pow- 
Wow  was  talked  of.  Howell  Gruffydd  had  looked  the 
word  up  in  his  little  English-Welsh  Dictionary,  and, 
though  he  had  failed  to  find  it,  he  was  none  the  less  set- 
up at  the  thought  of  being  a  Deputy  Grand  Cnief.  But 
he  became  thoughtful  again  when  there  arrived  for  him 
a  bundle  from  Barry  Topham,  which,  on  being  opened, 
was  found  to  contain  a  pair  of  very  much  creased  mocca- 


196  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

sins,  a  broad-striped  blanket,  and  a  head-dress  of 
feathers  similar  to  the  one  the  Grand  Chief  himself  was 
to  wear.  Howell  had  remembered  Dafydd  Dans. 
Dafydd  might  not  like  him  to  bedeck  himself  thus,  and 
what  Dafydd  might  think  always  mattered  a  great  deal 
in  Llanyglo.  Dafydd,  his  old  corduroys  notwithstand- 
ing, stood  for  the  integrity  of  Nationalism,  and  even 
Howell,  willing  to  be  English,  must  be  careful  not  to 
be  too  English  —  or,  in  the  present  case,  too  Indian. 

But  the  aliens  themselves  showed  no  such  reserve. 
They  had  bracketed  a  Welsh  name  with  an  English 
one  on  their  handbill,  had  placed  Hen  Wlad  by  the  side 
of  God  Save  the  People,  and  been  otherwise  hearty ;  and 
they  did  not'  know  that  even  in  their  hospitality  they 
were  a  little  bustling,  urgent,  and  compelling.  As  for 
differences  of  race,  such  things  were  presently  about  to 
be  abolished.  So  they  bade  Llanyglo  almost  boister- 
ously welcome  to  its  own  Trwyn,  and  Barry  Topham, 
passing  Dafydd  Dans  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  of  the 
celebration,  shouted  cheerily  over  his  shoulder,  "  Don't 
forget  your  harp,  Davis.  I'm  not  going  to  call  you 
1  Dafis  ' —  we'll  make  an  Englishman  of  you  before 
we've  done  with  you!  Eight-thirty  sharp.  .  .  .  Eh? 
.  .  .  Stuff  and  nonsense !  Fiddlededee !  What  sort  o' 
talk's  that,  man  alive !  Of  course  you're  bringing  your 
harp !  " 

It  was  on  a  dullish  summer  evening,  and  none  too 
warm  up  there,  that  the  Montgomeryites,  in  threes  and 
fours  and  sixes,  began  the  ascent  of  the  Trwyn.  Some 
of  them  had  already  set  match  to  their  lanterns,  though 
the  Trwyn  beam  was  not  alight  yet,  and  they  carried 
with  them  more  than  one  copy  of  The  Scottish  Students' 
Song  Book.  They  tried  their  voices  as  they  climbed, 
and  called  to  one  another,  pointing  out  false  easy  ways 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  197 

and  bursting  into  laughter  when  the  misdirected  ones 
had  to  return  again;  and  the  Trwyn  sheep  started  up 
from  before  their  feet  and  fled,  baa-ing.  The  refresh- 
ments had  gone  on  ahead,  as  also  had  the  fuel  for  the 
camp-fire,  but  no  Welshmen  were  to  be  seen  yet.  Per- 
haps, gruff  heartiness  notwithstanding,  they  felt  that 
they  were  guests  who  should  have  been  hosts.  Perhaps 
they  felt  that  here  was  not  the  urgency  there  had  been 
on  the  only  other  occasion  when  they  and  the  Saxon  had 
rushed  hurriedly  and  tumultuously  together  —  that 
wild  nightfall  when  Ned  Kerr,  from  the  roof  of  the 
new  Hafod  Unos,  had  seen  something  out  in  the  lair  of 
grey,  and,  with  a  cry  of  "  Llongddrylliad !  "  Celt  and 
new-comer  had  flung  themselves  into  an  open  boat  pell 
mell. 

Bu't  by  and  by  they  also  began  to  move  in  a  body 
slowly  along  the  shore,  sometimes  over  the  dry,  some- 
times plodding  over  their  own  reflections  in  the  ebb. 
There  was  no  pointing  out  false  ascents  to  them. 
Eesaac  Oliver  Gruflydd,  who  came  first,  had  fetched 
eggs  too  often  from  the  Trwyn  light  not  to  know  every 
cranny  of  the  promontory,  and  his  father  remembered 
the  building  of  the  lighthouse.  Howell  had  seen  them, 
as  a  boy,  locking  and  dowelling  the  great  blocks  of 
masonry,  shaped  each  like  an  intricate  Chinese  puzzle; 
and  in  thirty  odd  years  the  Light  seemed  to  have  become 
almost  as  much  part  of  the  headland  as  the  ancient 
Dinas  itself.  That  seemed  to  be  the  way  with  building. 
Even  Edward  Garden's  house  seemed  a  settled  thing 
now.  So,  in  another  year  or  two,  would  the  "  Mont- 
gomery," the  "  Cardigan,"  Ham-and-Egg  Terrace. 
And  Howell  reflected  that  stones  meant  grocery-orders. 
But  that  was  not  all.  If  he  must  be  English,  but  not 
too  English  for  Dafydd  Dafis,  he  must  still  be  careful 


198  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

to  be  the  right  sort  of  English.  He  made  little  out  of 
these  Utopia  readers.  They  simply  came  in  under  the 
"  Montgomery's  "  contract.  The  Briggses  and  Laceys 
still  provided  the  richer  yield.  Whether  was  the  better 
—  the  "  Montgomery,"  where  one  visitor  would  pres- 
ently be  creeping  into  a  bed  that  his  predecessor  had 
left  still  warm,  or  these  more  prosperous  ones,  who, 
Howell  knew,  would  presently  come  no  more?  .  .  . 
Moreover,  he  was  already  feeling  the  pressure  of  outside 
competition.  Ellis,  of  Forth  Neigr,  was  even  now 
quoting  cutting  rates  for  the  "  Cardigan's"  butter  and 
cheese,  and  for  a  long  time  Llanyglo  had  had  to  depend 
on  outsiders  for  its  milk.  The  railway,  that  brought 
people,  also  brought  their  provender.  .... 

Oh,  don't  think  for  a  moment  that  Howell  was  pros- 
pering without  giving  deep  thought  to  things ! 

They  gained  the  Dinas,  where  already  the  fire  was 
yellow  and  crackling,  and  stood  smiling  Good  evenings, 
as  if  they  waited  to  be  asked  inside. 

How  long  ago  it  was  since  the  foundations  of  that 
Dinas  had  been  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  Merlin  — 
how  long  ago  it  was  since  the  Red  and  White  Dragons 
had  contended  about  it,  now  one  gaining  the  advan- 
tage, now  the  other  —  how  long  ago  these  things  had 
been,  not  even  Miss  Amy  Topham  would  have  dared  to 
ask  June  Lacey.  Now  it  resembled  a  grey  old  heel  of 
cheese,  with  a  little  scrabbling  in  one  corner.  This 
scrabbling  was  where  Bert  Stoy,  one  of  the  younger  and 
most  indefatigable  of  the  Readers,  had  hoped  he  might 
find  a  British  grave. 

"  We  thought  you'd  maybe  changed  your  minds  about 
coming,"  were  the  words  with  which  Barry  Topham 
welcomed  them.  He  was  an  Indian,  but  a  bearded  one, 
and  he  bustled  here  and  there,  wanting  to  know  where 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  199 

So-and-So  was,  and  whether  this  requisite  or  that  had 
been  brought  up,  and  seeing  to  this  and  the  other.  The 
goblin  shadows  of  eighteen  or  twenty  of  the  Readers 
danced  on  the  ruined  works,  and  the  sky  behind  their 
illumined  faces  was  of  a  sad  and  leaden  lavender  hue. 
The  lanterns  made  little  patches  in  the  short  grass; 
matches  lighted  faces  momentarily;  and  then  suddenly 
there  broke  out  over  the  shoulder  of  the  headland  and 
continued  thenceforward,  the  Light.  Red,  red,  white 
—  red,  red,  white  —  it  was  numbing,  intolerable.  It 
dyed  the  clouds  that  seemed  to  sag  over  the  earth  as  the 
ceiling-sheets  sagged  in  the  cottages,  and  its  glare  was 
not  lost  high  overhead  now,  as  it  had  been  on  that  night 
when  the  Kerrs  had  rested  for  their  "  nooning  "  in  the 
midst  of  their  building  of  their  Hafod.  The  stagger- 
ing blaze  passed  not  twenty  feet  above  them,  seeming 
to  stumble  and  trip  over  the  cloud-folds,  and  driving 
the  revellers  to  fresh  places  with  their  backs  to  it.  You 
would  have  said  that  those  ancient  Red  and  White 
Dragons  had  come  to  life  again  and  were  chasing  one 
another  across  the  rafters  of  the  night. 

Then  Barry  Topham,  placing  himself  by  a  jagged 
tooth  of  rock,  held  up  his  hand  for  silence.  He  had  mo- 
tioned Howell  Gruffydd  to  his  side,  and  had  pointed  at 
somebody's  cap.  His  fingers  tweaked  a  tuning-fork ;  he 
set  the  vibrating  prong  against  his  teeth ;  he  gave  them 
a  soft  note  — "  Doh "  and  then : 

"  When  wilt  Thou  save  the  people, 
0  God  of  Mercy,  whenf  .  .    " 

Then  when  it  was  finished,  Barry  again  stood  with 
uplifted  hand.  Caps  were  put  on  again  by  such  as 
wore  them. 

"  Not  weft  enough,"  was  Barry's  brief  comment  on 


200  MUSHROOM  TOWK 

the  singing;  the  Welsh,  unfamiliar  with  the  air,  had 
not  sung.  "  IsTever  mind ;  it  might  ha'  been  worse. — 
Now  I'm  just  going  to  say  a  few  words,  and  then  we'll 
make  a  start." 

And  he  began. 

"  Well,  we've  been  here  a  fortnight  now,  and  I  think 
we've  all  enjoyed  it.  I  have  for  one.  Some  of  us 
has  been  up  these  grand  mountains,  finding  out  how 
they  were  made,  and  some  of  us  has  been  improving 
ourselves  among  the  rocks  and  on  the  shore.  Some  of 
us  has  botanised,  and  some's  collected  butterflies,  and 
one  and  all  we've  read  the  books  set  down  for  us  in  the 
Syllabus.  That's  a  job  done,  at  all  events. 

"  But  I  think  we  shall  one  and  all  admit  that  we've 
a  great  deal  to  learn  about  Llanyglo  yet.  There'd  still 
be  something  to  learn  if  we  were  to  come  here  six, 
ten,  twenty  times.  That's  the  grand  thing  about  knowl- 
edge—  we  need  never  be  afraid  we  shall  come  to 
the  end  of  it.  When  we've  read  fifty  books  there's 
always  fifty  more.  Ay,  and  there'll  be  another  fifty 
after  that. 

"  But  we've  got  other  things  besides  knowledge  at 
Llanyglo.  We've  got  health,  health  to  keep  us  going  for 
another  year.  And  we've  got  friends,  new  friends.  I 
think  we  can  say,"  here  he  laid  his  hand  on  Howell's 
shoulder,  "  that  we've  all  done  the  little  bit  that  in  us 
lies  to  break  down  prejudices  and  dislikes  and  racial 
differences.  We've  had  our  quarrels,  us  Welsh  and 
English,  in  the  past ;  no  doubt  there's  been  battles  fought 
on  this  very  spot;  but  that's  all  over,  and,  speaking  as 
Grand  Chief  for  the  year,  though  unworthy  to  succeed 
Comrade  Walker,  who  occupied  this  same  position  last 
year  at  our  Holiday  Camp  at  Keswick,  I  think  I  may 
say  we've  buried  the  hatchet  now.  So  in  the  name  of 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  201 

one  and  all  I  greet  these  friends  of  ours.  I  think  it 
does  us  both  good  to  come  together  like  this.  They're  a 
bit  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  on  the  poetical  side,  perhaps ; 
more  romantic  than  us ;  we're  just  plain,  practical  folk 
that  has  to  tew  for  our  livings ;  but  what  I  mean  is,  it's 
a  good  thing  for  both  of  us  to  get  to  understand  one 
another.  We  do  understand  one  another  now,  and  I'm 
sure  we're  all  very  glad  to  see  them  here."  (Applause, 
and  cries  from  the  Lancashire  men  of  "  Good  old 
Wales!")  "You  here  that,  Gruffydd  —  Comrade 
Gruffydd?  That's  hearty.  That's  Lancashire.  !Nb 
flowers  o'  speech,  but  we  say  a  thing  and  mean  it.  And 
we  mean  it  when  we  say  we're  very  glad  to  see  you  in- 
deed, and  hope  this  won't  be  our  last  visit  to  Llanyglo. — 
And  now  I  won't  take  up  any  more  of  your  time.  We've 
a  long  programme  before  us,  and  I  see  that  the  first 

item  is "  he  consulted  a  paper  in  his  hand,  " is 

the  old  favourite,  There  is  a  Tavern.  What's  the  key, 
Harry  ?  C  ?  (Doh,  lah  —  lah,  te,  doh ) ." 

And  with  the  singing  of  There  is  a  Tavern  in  the 
Town  the  Pow-Wow  began. 

Did  they  come  to  understand  one  another  the  better 
for  it  ?  Were  they  who  took  part  in  that  Pow-Wow  so 
"  poetical  and  romantic  "  for  the  one  part,  so  blunt  and 
rough  and  practical  for  the  other?  Did  a  score  or  so 
of  Saxons  suddenly  and  miraculously  cease  that  night 
to  belong  to  the  world's  most  sentimental  race,  and  were 
the  hearts  of  as  many  Celts  as  miraculously  changed? 
No  doubt  it  all  seemed  simple  enough  to  Barry  Topham. 
Hard-rinded  himself,  but  not  without  a  generous  juice 
within,  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  believe  that 
pulpier  fruits  existed,  with  a  stone  inside  he  would  but 
crack  his  teeth  upon.  Perhaps  —  perhaps  —  it  was 
not  so ;  and  yet  —  what,  after  all,  can  the  victor  do  to 


202  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

the  vanquished  more  than  vanquish  him?  .  .  .  Barry" 
saw  their  smiles  only,  and  for  every  smile  they  received 
they  gave  three.  The  jovial  Campers  became  ever 
bluffer  and  heartier  and  fonder  of  them  as  song  followed 
song.  Nor  did  the  Welshmen  refuse  to  sing.  Enlight- 
ened Young  Wales,  in  the  person  of  Eesaac  Oliver 
Gruffydd,  was  presently  to  be  seen  with  his  back  to  the 
intolerable  Trwyn  beam  while  the  Dragons  of  the  Light 
chased  one  another  behind  his  head ;  and  his  voice  was 
lifted  up  in  Vale  of  Liang ollen.  Was  the  song  a  suc- 
cess ?  It  was  doubly  a  success.  The  blunt  and  genial 
aliens  applauded  him  as  a  breaker  of  the  ice,  his  com- 
patriots applauded  him  as  a  stepper  into  the  breach 
from  which  they  themselves  had  hung  back.  Hardly 
had  he  sat  down  before  he  was  beset  with  requests  to 
hum  the  air  all  over  again,  in  order  that  they  might  take 
it  down  in  the  Tonic  Sol-fa  notation.  .  .  .  Then,  almost 
immediately,  the  clapping  swelled  again,  and  there  were 
cries  of  "  Harry !  Harry !  "  Harry  Stone,  who  had 
the  voice  of  an  angel,  was  allowed  to  sing  as  he  sat,  be- 
cause of  his  lameness,  and  he  could  not  be  seen  in  his 
dim  angle  of  masonry,  but  only  the  unhurrying  but 
unceasing  red  and  white  spokes,  that  strode  from  afar 
over  the  sea,  passed  overhead,  and  were  off  on  their  wide 
circle  again.  Hearing  his  voice  and  not  seeing  him,  you 
thought  of  a  pure  spring  that  gushes  suddenly  out  of 
the  dark  and  grudging  earth. —  Cannibalee,  he 

sang 

It  was  poor  enough  stuff.  Its  words  were  a  laborious 
parody,  its  harmonies  exactly  predicable;  it  was 
facetious  or  nothing,  and  it  marred  an  original  with  a 
remote  and  deathly  grace  of  its  own;  but  these  things 
were  forgotten  as  Harry  sang.  To-morrow  they  were 
leaving  Llanyglo.  To-morrow  they  were  filing  back 


THE  HOLIDAY  CAMP  203 

through  that  postern  that  had  given  them  this,  their 
fortnight's  respite,  from  tasks  too  often  ignoble,  from 
cramped  circumstances,  from  savourless  lives.  And  it 
weighed  on  them,  tenderly  yet  heavily.  Next  year 
seemed  so  sadly,  sadly  far  away.  .  .  . 

"  Her  eyes  were  as  fair  as  the  star  of  the  morn 
And  her  teeth  were  as  sharp  as  the  point  of  a  thorn  — 
She  was  very  fair  to  see ! " 

Harry  sang ;  and  the  hands  of  young  men  sought  those 
of  young  women  in  the  blackness  of  the  Dinas's  shadows, 
and  the  married  ones  drew  a  little  closer  together,  and 
there  was  no  parody  at  all  in  the  little  soft  punctuations 
of  the  refrain,  in  which  every  voice  joined : 

"  8 he  was  very  fair  to  see 

(So  she  was!) 

She  was  very  fair  to  see 

(So  she  was!) " 

Edward  Garden  was  right 


"  Her  eyes  were  as  fair  as  the  star  of  the  morn 
And  her  teeth  were  as  sharp  as  the  point  of  a  thorn  — — 
My  beautiful  Cannibalee " 

Edward  Garden  was  right.  That  tender  but  heavy 
weight,  so  tender,  so  heavy  that  it  bore  down  the  stupid 
expression  of  the  song,  lay  even  on  the  Welshmen  too. 
He  was  admirably  shrewd  and  right.  It  would  not  be 
yet  awhile  —  it  was  too  early  yet  —  but  presently,  as 
an  advertisement  for  Llanyglo,  an  Eisteddfod  —  an 
Eisteddfod,  say,  when  the  holiday  season  began  in  July, 
and  a  Brass  Band  Contest  towards  its  close  in  Septem- 
ber. .  .  . 

They  were  still  singing  when  they  came  down  again, 
at  eleven  o'clock.  You  might  have  thought,  from  the 
way  in  which  Barry  Topham  clung  to  Howell  Gruffydd's 


204  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

arm,  that  he  was  slightly  drunk,  but  he  was  not;  that 
was  only  brotherliness  and  exaltation.  He  still  wore 
the  gala-dress  of  the  Grand  Chief,  but  in  that  particular 
Howell  thought  that  he  had  come  out  of  his  dilemma 
rather  well.  The  feather  head-dress  he  had  tried  on 
had  proved  too  big  for  his  head,  and  in  trying  to  shorten 
the  band  he  had  torn  off  the  button,  thus  rendering  the 
adornment  useless.  As  for  the  striped  blanket  about 
his  shoulders  —  well,  it  was  a  coolish  night,  and  there 
is  no  sense  in  taking  a  chill  when  there  is  a  blanket  to 
be  had  to  keep  you  warm.  Even  Dafydd  would  see 
that.  So  Howell  had  worn  it.  ... 

And  looked  at  from  below  again,  the  Trwyn  beam 
no  longer  appeared  a  hunt  of  raving  red  and  white 
monsters,  but  a  little  lonely  thing,  familiar  and  disre- 
garded, old,  wise,  minding  its  own  business,  and  mean- 
while quietly  opening  and  shutting  an  eye. 


n 

THE  GIANT'S  STBIDE 

AFTER  that  summer  they  began  in  earnest  the 
building  of  Llanyglo.  Come  and  see  them  at  it. 

Whence  came  these  stone-carts  and  timber-carts,  these 
girders  and  castings,  a  single  one  only  taking  up  a 
couple  of  trucks?  Whence  came  these  wains  of  floor- 
boards with  their  trailing  tails  bobbing  up  and  down 
within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  white  road,  these  bastions 
of  metal  and  ballast,  these  crawling  and  earth-shaking 
traction-engines  with  the  little  bellies  and  the  monstrous 
wheels  and  the  dotted  line  of  lorries  and  trollies  behind 
them?  Whence  these  sawn  planks,  these  massive 
frames  with  machinery  parts  on  them  so  heavy  that 
every  rut  threatens  a  standstill,  these  contractors'  vans 
with  absurd  little  trolley-wheels,  these  gatlings  of  drain- 
pipes, these  wagons  of  plumbers'  material,  these  vans 
of  provisions,  this  army  of  men?  Why  do  these  now 
choke  the  roads  that  formerly  were  empty  save  for  the 
passing  of  a  wain  of  whispering  hay,  or  the  light 
market-cart  that  left  a  smell  of  raspberries  and  a  stain 
of  Welsh  song  behind,  or  Ned  Kerr  with  his  folding  hut 
and  clogging-knife,  or  Ynys  Lovell  with  her  packing- 
case  cart  and  her  mother  with  her  loops  of  cane  seeking 
chairs  to  mend  ?  Where  did  they  come  from,  and  what 
are  they  doing  here  ? 

The  stone,  of  course,  comes  from  the  Forth  Neigr 

quarry,  where  the  blasts  shake  the  rocks  and  the  shoot- 

205 


206  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

ing  of  waste  resounds  throughout  the  day.  And  the 
castings  come  from  Manchester  and  Middlesborough  and 
Wigan  and  Leeds.  And  the  sawn  planks  come  from 
Russia  and  the  Baltic,  and  the  larches  for  scaffolding 
from  the  Merionethshire  valleys.  These  things  come 
from  these  places  —  if  you  look  at  it  that  way.  But 
look  at  it  the  other  way  and  they  have  an  origin  mystical 
indeed.  They  are  conceived  of  fecund  nods  and  looks, 
of  the  germination  of  writing  and  initials  and  signatures 
and  contract-stamps.  They  are  born  of  print  and  pro- 
motion and  allotment,  and  the  cord  is  cut  when  sums 
are  paid  on  application,  and  more  in  three  months'  time. 
They  thrive  when  Chairmen,  standing  up  on  platforms, 
say  "  the  adoption  of  the  Accounts  has  been  moved  and 

seconded ,"   and  become  lusty  when  more  clerks 

have  to  be  called  in,  and  temporary  premises  have  to  be 
taken,  to  cope  with  the  public  rush  for  the  splendid 
thing.  You  see  their  real  origin  on  those  blackboards 
that  seem  to  set  Llanyglo  its  new  multiplication  sum, 
and  in  those  paragraphs  in  the  Manchester  and  Liverpool 
and  London  papers.  You  see  it  again  when  the  new 
Local  Government  Bill  receives  the  Eoyal  Assent.  You 
see  it  once  more  when  from  the  machines  of  printers  in 
Nottingham  and  Harrow  and  Frome  and  Belfast  there 
are  turned  out  the  posters  that  already  overspread  the 
northern  hoardings,  bidding  Blackpool  look  to  itself, 
warning  Douglas  that  it  has  another  competitor,  elbow- 
ing Bridlington,  shoving  Yarmouth  aside.  There  are 
half  a  dozen  of  these  posters  out  already,  and  if  they  are 
not  strictly  speaking  representations  of  Llanyglo,  they 
are  something  more  —  they  are  prophecies,  which  you 
will  do  well  to  heed  if  you  want  to  put  your  money  on  a 
good  thing.  There  is  one  in  Lime  Street  Station,  Liver- 
pool (you  need  not  glance  at  that  upper  window ;  you'd 


THE  GIANT'S  STRIDE  207 

have  a  job  to  find  poor  Terry  Armfield's  Trwyn  Avenue 
now).  It  is  the  "Welsh  Giantess"  one.  She  is 
dressed  in  a  black  steeple  hat  with  a  white  hood  under- 
neath it,  red  check  shawl,  striped  petticoat,  and  has 
buckles  on  her  shoes.  She  holds  the  town  in  a  three- 
quarter  circle  in  her  arms,  with  children  at  play  on  the 
sands  and  super-Briggses  and  super-Laceys  all  spilling 
out  in  the  foreground.  The  mountains  are  indigo,  the 
hotels  pink,  the  sands  chrome  yellow,  and  the  name 
LLANYGLO  sprawls  across  the  sky  as  if  the  Trwyn 
Light  had  dropped  it  there  in  passing,  a  letter  at  a 
time.  .  .  .  The  poster,  of  course,  is  a  little  grandiose: 
nobody  cries  stinking  fish.  The  Pier,  for  example,  isn't 
there  yet.  But  it  is  somewhere,  in  somebody's  desk- 
drawer,  perhaps,  or  perhaps  it  has  even  got  farther  than 
that.  Perhaps  the  caissons  are  already  on  the  way; 
certainly  a  group  of  strangers  has  been  busy  on  the  shore 
any  time  this  past  twelve  months.  And  the  Promenade 
isn't  ex-act-\y  like  that  yet.  It  has  railings  not  unlike 
those,  but  not  yet  that  fine  stretch  of  impregnable  sea- 
wall. And  so  with  the  hotels.  .  .  .  But  all  in  good 
time.  These  things  will  all  be  ready  quite  as  soon  as 
those  posters  have  sunk  into  the  perception  of  the  public. 
We  mustn't  have  a  completely  equipped  town  standing 
empty  for  a  number  of  seasons  while  folk  make  up  their 
minds  whether  they'll  come  or  not.  We  have  the  money, 
the  men,  powers  under  the  new  Act  ample  as  our  hearts 
could  wish,  and  the  certainty  of  the  coming  reward. 

Llanyglo  itself  found  it  difficult  to  realise  what  was 
happening.  It  all  came  in  such  strides.  Where  the 
stake-and-wire-enclosed  roads  had  been,  a  giant  hoard- 
ing would  rise,  twenty,  forty,  fifty  yards  long.  On  this- 
hoarding,  by  means  of  the  railway  posters,  Llanyglo 
would  be  told  all  about  itself  —  its  climate,  its  mild 


208  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

winters,  its  accessibility  from  all  parts,  and  its  "  un- 
rivalled attractions."  It  read  Gilbert  Smythe's  signa- 
ture there.  And  among  these  were  other  bills  curiously 
opposite,  which  told  them  that  if  they  in  their  turn 
needed  change,  there  were  week-end  tickets  to  be  had  to 
Liverpool  and  Belle  Vue  at  specially  reduced  rates. — 
And  while  Llanyglo  knew,  as  month  succeeded  month, 
that  work  was  going  on  behind  these  hoardings,  the  effect 
was  none  the  less  magical  when,  on  the  day  they  were 
knocked  to  pieces  again,  the  astounding  frontage  ap- 
peared. They  had  known  nothing  like  it  since  that  piece 
of  witchcraft  of  the  Kerrs,  and  now  several  times  they 
had  seen  it  happen.  It  had  happened  between  the 
"  Cambrian  "  and  "  Cardigan  "  hotels.  It  had  happened 
at  Pritchard's  Corner.  And  now  it  was  about  to  happen 
again,  along  a  line  that  ran  from  a  point  just  below  the 
Kerrs'  Hafod  to  the  piece  of  land,  not  built  on  yet, 
where  for  three  days  one  Spring  a  circus  was  set  up, 
its  cages  and  caravans  and  the  guy-ropes  of  its  tenting 
all  mingled  with  the  timber-stacks  and  mortar-engines 
and  breastworks  of  stone  setts  and  other  dumpings  of 
a  dozen  different  contractors.  Later,  a  temporary 
wooden  shed  occupied  this  space.  This  shed  was  town- 
hall,  concert-hall,  general  purposes  hall,  and  theatre 
thrown  into  one.  That  was  the  time  Llanyglo  began 
to  discover  that  if  one  of  its  inhabitants  wished  to 
meet  another  he  had  better  appoint  a  time  and  place 
to  do  so.  To  climb  up  the  nearest  sandhill  and  take  a 
look  round  no  longer  served. 

And  even  these  amazing  unfoldings  were  as  nothing 
compared  with  that  which  (it  was  already  known)  was 
to  happen  next  —  the  construction  of  the  sea-wall  and 
the  Pier. 

Philip  Lacey's  Moral  Valley  was  already  finished. 


THE  GIANT'S  STEIDE  209 

Its  gravelled  walks,  with  steps  every  few  yards, 
straggled  up  both  sides  of  the  ravine  in  the  side  of  the 
Trwyn,  and  from  the  topmost  of  these  you  could  look 
down  on  the  octagonal  roof  of  the  bandstand  that  occu- 
pied the  levelled  plot  in  the  middle.  Sticking  (as  it 
were)  the  point  of  his  compasses  into  the  bandstand, 
Philip  had  described  successions  of  eighth  and  quarter- 
circles,  with  radiating  paths  and  variously  shaped 
smaller  beds  in  between;  and  of  these  he  had  made  a 
piece  of  crewel-work  of  colour.  Golden  feather  and 
London  pride,  lobelia  and  pinks  and  bachelors'-buttons, 
formed  the  borders;  behind  them,  in  ovals  and  stars 
and  crown-shapes  and  monograms,  mignonette  and 
arabis  and  dwarf  pansies  and  Virginia  stock  were  set; 
and  so  he  had  brushed-and-combed  and  curled  and 
scented  the  whole  place.  He  had  staked  his  profes- 
sional reputation,  too,  that  from  the  first  crocus  to  the 
last  Michaelmas  daisy,  the  gaudy  Catherine-wheel 
would  never  be  for  a  single  day  out  of  bloom ;  and  then 
he  had  departed,  leaving  the  responsibility  of  upkeep  to 
the  delighted  town.  John  Willie  Garden,  looking  at 
the  Valley's  logical  plan,  wished  that  the  town  itself 
had  had  as  fair,  if  severe,  a  start. 

For  John  Willie  was  Clerk  of  the  Works  now  in  a 
very  different  sense  from  that  in  which  he  had  had 
charge  of  the  coming  of  Railhead.  He  was  now  nine- 
teen, and  had  no  longer  any  wish  to  go  into  the  business 
in  Manchester.  His  father,  noting  his  tastes  and 
capacity,  had  judged  it  perfectly  safe  to  depart,  leaving 
John  Willie  to  look  after  things  in  his  stead ;  and  as  no 
contractor's  foreman  wished  to  quarrel  with  the  son  of 
the  principal  maker  of  the  place,  he  had  a  fairly  large 
authority.  So  John  Willie  occupied  the  house  by  the 
shore,  with  Minetta  to  make  him  comfortable.  He 


210  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

spent  his  days  in  passing  from  this  building  to  that, 
pushing  at  doors  in  hoardings  marked  "  No  Admit- 
tance," threading  his  way  along  the  wheeling-planks, 
mounting  ladders,  looking  down  on  the  swarming  men 
from  the  stagings,  looking  up  through  the  groves  of  the 
scaffold-poles,  looking  out,  not  over  the  sandhills  now, 
but  over  other  houses  built  and  building.  The  masts 
and  spars  of  other  scaffold-poles  here  and  there  might 
almost  have  made  you  think  that  a  navigable  river 
twisted  through  Llanyglo,  and  that  these  were  the  rig- 
ging of  the  vessels  upon  it.  From  one  work  to  another 
he  passed,  approving,  questioning,  telephoning,  making 
notes.  There  is  scarce  a  room  of  that  period  of  Llany- 
glo's  up-springing  but,  even  to-day,  John  Willie  Garden 
can  tell  you  the  lie  of  its  water-pipes,  where  its  main- 
cocks  are,  where  its  drains,  its  gas-connections,  the  depth 
of  its  foundations,  the  branchings  of  its  chimney-flues. 
He  hasn't  been  into  half  of  them  since,  but  the  present 
occupiers  can  tell  him  nothing  about  which  cellars  are 
on  the  rock  and  when  the  girders  are  due  to  be  repainted. 
And  he  could  talk  to  the  men  as  well  as  to  their  bosses. 
He  addressed  them  authoritatively,  but  he  knew  their 
football  and  their  drinking,  their  jokes  and  songs,  which 
dog  belonged  to  which  and  which  among  them 
"  subbed "  or  "  liened "  before  his  wage  was  due. 
John  Willie  Garden's  boyhood  lay  behind  him  now. 

What  was  John  Willie  like  to  look  at  by  this  time, 
and  what  was  his  outlook  on  the  world  ? 

You  may  meet  his  kind  at  six  o'clock  any  morning, 
the  sons  of  Alderman  This  or  Sir  John  That,  going  to 
their  fathers'  engineering-shops  in  Leeds,  or  to  Man- 
chester spinning-sheds,  or  Rochdale  factories,  or  dye- 
works,  or  rolling-mills,  or  drawing-offices,  or  electrical 
works.  They  wear  greasy  blue  overalls  and  carry  tin 


THE  GIANT'S  STRIDE  211 

luncheon-cans,  and  use  cotton-waste  for  handkerchiefs. 
They  glory  in  the  readiness  of  their  repartee  to  their 
fathers'  workmen,  to  be  mistaken  for  one  of  whom 
gives  them  the  keenest  pleasure.  Joyously  they  attack 
the  blackest  and  greasiest  of  the  work,  honestly  forget- 
ting that  they  could  leave  this  to  others  if  they  wished. 
—  But  see  them  in  the  evening!  They  have  had  tea 
and  a  "  clean-up  "  by  this  time.  Their  heads  have  been 
soused  and  their  hands  pumiced,  they  have  on  their 
mahogany  boots  and  their  white  collars,  the  hands  that 
wielded  crowbars  or  strained  with  the  grip  of  spanners 
ply  thin  and  expensive  canes  now,  and  you  can  see  the 
radiance  of  their  approach  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 
They  are  off  to  billiard-rooms  and  card-parties,  theatre- 
boxes,  or  courting.  They  will  be  home  fairly  early, 
because  of  the  five-o'clock  alarum  in  the  morning,  but 
until  then  they  are  so  evidently  about  to  enjoy  them- 
selves that  you  sigh  if  you  are  unable  to  join  them.  Go 
one  night  and  watch  them  when  next  the  Pantomime 
comes.  Sit  in  the  second  row  of  the  stalls  (you  won't 
be  able  to  get  into  the  first  row).  If  the  leading  lady 
is  pretty,  and  John  Willie  and  Percy  Briggs  are  there, 
you  won't  consider  your  evening  wasted.  The  show  is 
sure  to  "  go." 

That,  more  or  less,  was  John  Willie.  He  had  rather 
a  lot  of  money  to  spend,  but  nowhere  much  to  spend  it 
yet.  His  hair  was  a  little  less  primrose  coloured  than 
it  had  been  (pomatum  does  darken  hair  a  little),  but  his 
eyes  had  not  altered.  They  were  still  just  as  receptive 
or  just  as  stupid  as  he  cared  to  make  them,  blue  as  flax, 
and  capable,  if  you  happened  to  catch  him  at  something 
he  did  not  wish  to  be  caught  at,  of  a  rather  hard  and 
prolonged  stare.  He  was  not  tall  —  long  ago  it  had 
been  plain  he  would  not  be  —  but,  looking  at  his 


212  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

shoulders,  hung  as  it  were  from  an  apex  at  the  back  of 
his  head,  you  would  have  wondered  at  the  lightness  of 
the  pit-pat  of  his  feet  when  he  did  a  step-dance  on  the 
occasion  of  one  of  the  men's  "  birthdays  "  (which  have 
nothing  to  do  with  days  of  birth,  by  the  way,  but  fre- 
quently much  to  do  with  an  unfancied  horse  and  a  long- 
ish  price).  In  a  word,  he  was  a  nicish,  powerful  young 
rascal,  with  an  expensive  dressing-case  and  a  trace  of 
those  Lancashire  final  "  g's  " ;  and  he  and  his  friends 
(of  whom  he  had  a  good  many  down  to  Llanyglo)  had 
their  own  corner  in  the  "  Cambrian  "  lounge,  unless  the 
evening's  programme  included  cards  or  involved  the  use 
of  a  room  with  a  piano  in  it. 

Yet,  though  the  Llanyglo  air  might  thrill  with  the 
clink-clink  of  chisels  on  stone,  and  vibrate  with  the 
jolting  of  the  builders'  carts,  and  resound  with  all  the 
noises  of  the  swift  building,  still,  nobody  who  now 
came  thought  it  ruined.  On  the  contrary,  exactly  as 
the  Briggses  and  the  Laceys  had  predicted,  it  came  to 
them  with  shocks  of  delight.  For  think  of  it :  here  was 
no  twopenny  ride  on  a  clanging  tram  through  naked, 
unshaded  streets  before  they  could  reach  the  sea.  Here 
was  no  two-miles  plod  back  again  over  the  burning 
asphalt,  slackening  every  nerve  that  had  been  braced 
up  by  the  bathe.  Here  was  no  Brighton  nor  Scar- 
borough nor  Blackpool  yet,  with  nettings  of  electric 
wires  overhead  and  perspective  of  rails  below.  No: 
from  any  part  of  the  place,  three  minutes  would  take 
you,  if  not  in  every  case  to  the  beach  itself,  at  any  rate 
to  an  open  space  of  thyme  and  harebells  and  hillocks  of 
clean  sand,  where,  if  you  got  on  the  right  side  of  the 
sandhill,  you  might  not  know  that  there  was  a  crane  or 
a  scaffold  within  miles.  And  if  the  beach  was  ploughed 


THE  GIANT'S  STEIDE  213 

and  harrowed  and  tramped  and  trodden  until  it  re- 
sembled a  dirty  batter-pudding,  half  a  day  and  a  tide, 
and  the  sands  were  smooth  and  shining  again,  and  the 
wet  stretches  seemed  as  much  sky  as  land,  and  passing 
birds  were  reflected  in  their  depths.  The  sea  tidied 
up  the  shore  again  as  the  housemaids  took  up  the  crumbs 
from  the  hotel  carpets. —  And  there  were  dozens  of 
boats  now,  in  which  you  could  push  out  a  few  hundred 
yards  and  find  yourself  in  spots  that  man  can  never 
sully.  Five  minutes'  tugging  at  the  oars  and  you  could 
rock  and  gaze  up  at  the  sky,  or  look  over  the  boat's  side 
at  the  translucent  green  reflection  of  its  curving  boards 
below,  and  past  that  into  glassy  clear  depths,  and  so 
past  that  again  to  where  the  water  began  to  show  you, 
not  its  depths,  but  the  broken  mirroring  of  the  sky 
again.  The  boating  was  one  of  the  "  unrivalled  at- 
tractions." By  nine  o'clock  every  morning  a  row  of 
boatmen  leaned  against  the  railings  between  the 
"  Cambrian "  and  the  jetty,  smoking,  scanning  the 
front,  showing  you  fresh  bait,  and  offering  boats  by 
the  hour,  the  morning,  or  the  day.  Foremost  among 
them,  as  likely  as  not,  would  be  Tommy,  the  youngest 
of  the  Kerrs.  He  wore  a  blue  gausey  with  a  diamond 
woven  across  the  breast,  touched  the  peak  of  his  dirty 
old  petty-officer's  cap  constantly,  and  told  folk  it  was 
".a  gradely  morning  for  fishing."  Though  the  young- 
est, he  was  the  least  reputable  of  the  Kerrs.  Ned,  the 
eldest,  Llanyglo  counted  part  of  itself;  the  two  middle 
ones  were  both  contractors'  foremen,  and  respected  cit- 
izens ;  but  Tommy  had  become  the  scandal  of  Llanyglo. 
You  were  well  advised  to  allow  him  double  time  or  more 
if  you  gave  him  a  bag  to  carry  anywhere  and  there  was 
the  temptation  of  beer  on  the  way ;  and  you  might  catch 


214  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

him  sober  if  you  engaged  him  and  his  boat  soon  after 
breakfast,  but  your  chance  of  doing  so  became  ever  less 
as  the  day  wore  on. 

Who  were  these  people  who  strolled  among  the 
droning  bees  of  the  sandhills  or  pushed  out  from  the 
shore  in  boats?  Well,  they  were  of  more  kinds  than 
one  or  two  now.  The  charges  at  the  "  Cambrian " 
were  still  stiffish;  a  week  there  cost  as  much  as  a  fort- 
night at  the  "  Cardigan,"  or  a  month  at  the  "  Montgom- 
ery " ;  and  so  we  still  exhibit  the  social  degrees.  There 
has  even  been  a  certain  amount  of  "  feeling  "  about  this. 
Of  two  Rochdale  men,  say,  with  little  to  choose  between 
them  in  point  of  income,  one  will  be  seen  on  the  "  Cam- 
brian's "  balcony  in  the  evening  after  dinner,  his 
heart-shaped  dinner-shirt  one  of  a  number  of  heart- 
shaped  dinner-shirts,  the  bosom  and  neck  and  head  of 
the  lady  he  is  chatting  with  rising  out  of  her  lacy 
corsage  as  a  bouquet  rises  from  the  paper  frill  that 
encloses  and  bedecks  it.  He  will  be  seen  there,  with 
the  red-shaded  lamps  of  the  empty  dining-room  behind 
him  and  the  moonlight  making  his  sunburnt  face  very 
dark.  But  the  other's  face  is  sunburnt  too,  and  at 
half  the  cost.  He  too  could  attitudinise  like  this  were 
he  so  minded.  And  he  reflects  that  Jones  or  Jackson 
may  cut  a  dash  among  strangers,  but  he  mustn't  try 
it  on  with  people  who  know  him  at  home.  As  for  him- 
self, he's  thankful  to  say  that  he's  just  the  same 
wherever  he  is,  at  home  or  away  on  a  holiday.  .  .  . 

In  fact  Jones  or  Jackson  is  precisely  the  man  Ed- 
ward Garden  more  than  half  expected  —  the  man  who 
can't  quite  afford  it,  but  will.  .  .  .  But  this,  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  observe,  is  to  take  the  "  Cambrian  " 
at  less  than  its  average  and  the  "  Cardigan  "  at  rather 
more. 


THE  GIANT'S  STEIDE  215 

The  "  Montgomery "  is  actually  outclassed  by  the 
better  "  Private  Hotels  "  and  one  or  two  of  the  superior 
"  Boarding  Establishments."  Indeed,  of  these  last  the 
"  Cadwallader  "  almost  ranks  with  the  "  Cambrian  " 
itself.  And  so  we  come  by  degrees  down  to  Ham-and- 
Egg  Terrace. —  But  enough  of  these  nuances  of  differ- 
ence of  a  fortnight's  duration.  Who,  taken  by-and- 
large,  are  these  people,  and  where  do  they  come  from  ? 

You  have  only  to  ask  yourself,  "  Who  else  should 
they  be  ? "  and  your  question  is  half  answered.  Re- 
member the  smallness  of  these  Islands,  and  the  scores 
of  pulsing,  radiating,  almost  radio-active  centres  within 
them,  every  one  swarming  with  folk  who  intend  to  have 
a  better  time  than  their  fathers  have  had.  Could  the 
East  Coast  be  pushed  out  beyond  the  North  Sea,  and 
Lancashire  be  stretched  until  it  took  in  Galway,  St. 
George's  Channel  and  all,  there  might  be  room  enough 
on  England's  shores  for  every  parliamentary  voter  to 
have  a  few  acres  of  Trwyn  foreshore  of  his  own  and  a 
black  cow  walking  up  and  down  them,  seeking  coolness 
and  food  hock-deep  in  the  glistening  ebb ;  but,  as  things 
are,  the  littoral  is  by  much  too  small.  True,  scores  and 
fifties  of  miles  of  it  remain  practically  unvisited;  but 
no  snail  has  snuffled  out  its  manganese  there,  and  they 
are  not  within  a  few  hours  and  a  thirty-shilling  circular 
fare  of  the  human  ant-heaps  of  the  land,  where  King's 
Ransoms  of  Holiday  Club  money  are  put  by.  There 
was  no  wonder  about  the  growth  of  Llanyglo.  Geo- 
graphically situated  as  it  was,  the  marvel  would  have 
been  had  it  not  grown.  With  a  few  posters  and  similar 
devices  to  advertise  it,  it  would  presently  continue  to 
advertise  itself. 

Therefore  the  folk  who  flocked  there  were  of  every 
kind,  short  of  the  grey  and  overwhelming  multitude  itself. 


216  MUSHEOOM  TOWN 

Because  it  was  only  partly  built,  because  it  had  not  yet 
shaken  down  to  a  definite  character  and  physiognomy 
and  personality,  it  spread  its  net  the  wider.  Did  you 
want  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  to  have  your  luggage  car- 
ried by  a  man  in  a  red  jacket  ?  There  was  the  "  Cam- 
brian." Did  you  want  everything  that  the  Cambrians 
had,  barring  only  the  luxury  of  being  seen  lounging  in 
one  of  the  wicker-chairs  about  its  portals,  and  still  to 
keep  your  money  in  your  pocket  ?  There  was  the  "  Car- 
digan." Did  you  want  to  read  or  to  idle,  to  botanise 
or  merely  to  forget  your  cares  for  a  fortnight,  to  picnic 
up  the  Trwyn  or  to  have  your  meals  in  bed?  They 
asked  no  questions  at  the  "  Montgomery."  From  Philip 
Lacey's  piece  of  Floral  Geometry  to  the  nooks  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  Trwyn  where  you  could  spend  a  whole 
morning  undisturbed,  there  was  something  for  every 
taste.  And  they  actually  had  to  turn  people  away  who 
had  been  so  ill-advised  as  to  come  with  their  luggage 
without  having  first  secured  their  lodging. 

And  now  it  had  come  to  this :  that  while  these  came 
to  Llanyglo  for  a  change  of  air,  John  Willie  Garden,  who 
spent  his  days  among  lime  and  mortar  and  wheeling- 
planks  and  newly  dressed  stone,  frequently  turned  his 
back  on  Llanyglo  for  precisely  the  same  reason.  Once 
a  week  or  so  he  was  seen  to  drive  past  Pritchard's  Cor- 
ner in  a  light  yellow  trap  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
He  was  off  to  see  to  another  of  his  father's  interests  — 
that  "  catchment  area  "  far  away  up  in  the  mountains. 
He  drove  eight  miles,  put  up  at  an  inn  past  which  a 
trout-stream  brawled  (hardly  yet  settled  from  its  pre- 
cipitous plunging  cataracts),  and  then  set  out  on  foot 
up  a  road  that  rose  one-in-five  under  a  whispering  wood, 
to  see  the  skyline  of  which  you  had  to  throw  your  head 
back.  It  took  him  an  hour  of  walking  to  get  to  his  desti- 


THE  GIANT'S  STRIDE  217 

nation  —  a  solitary  wooden  cabin  where  the  agent  lived. 
The  agent  had  on  the  whole  an  easy  time  of  it,  for  hardly 
a  hundred  yards  from  his  cabin  door,  above  the  woods 
now,  lay  Llyn  Delyn,  pure  looking-glass  in  the  mile  long 
crook  of  the  mountain.  An  old  boat  was  moored  among 
the  sedges  at  one  end,  the  launching  of  which  on  the  un- 
broken surface  of  that  lovely  water  always  seemed  to 
invoke  vague  judgments,  penalties  perhaps  forborne,  but 
none  the  less  incurred.  Here  the  agent,  whose  name  was 
Sharpe,  fished.  John  Willie  fished  with  him.  Fishing 
was  a  good  enough  way  of  passing  the  time,  for  they 
were  not  really  doing  anything  up  there.  They  were 
merely  waiting — -waiting  for  more  people  to  come  to 
Llanyglo,  for  the  Town  Hall  to  rise,  for  the  seat  of  local 
administration  to  be  shifted  from  Forth  Neigr,  and  then 
for  the  Waterworks  Scheme.  They  had  the  water  as 
fast  as  prevision  and  Law  could  make  it.  They  would 
not  drive  too  hard  a  bargain  with  the  town.  In  the 
meantime  they  fished,  speaking  little,  noting  whether  it 
was  the  gnat  or  the  cochybondhu  that  killed,  casting  so 
lightly  that  the  boat  scarcely  rocked.  Sometimes,  when 
the  amber  evening  light  was  clear  behind  them,  so  im- 
peccable was  the  profound  mirror  below  that,  while  their 
tweed-clad  forms  could  hardly  be  distinguished  from  the 
hues  of  the  mountain  behind,  the  upside-down  shapes 
beneath  them  were  sharp  and  dark  as  the  silhouettes  in 
your  grandmother's  little  oval  frames. 


Ill 

THE  BLAJSTK:  j 


DEATH  took  a  hand  that  winter  in  Llanyglo's 
making.  They  were  getting  well  up  with  the 
Town  Hall,  in  what  is  now  Gardd  Street  ;  still  the  flag 
floated  at  the  polehead,  in  token  that  they  had  got  thus 
far  without  serious  mishap  ;  and  then  it  had  to  be  run 
down  to  the  half-mast.  It  was  a  common  scaffold  acci- 
dent. Harry  Kerr,  on  one  of  the  upper  stages,  stepped 
back  upon  empty  air  ;  Sam  sprang  forward  to  save  him  ; 
and  they  picked  them  both  up  from  among  the  debris 
below.  A  few  remembered  the  launching  of  that  open 
boat  on  that  wild  night  seven  years  before,  and  said  that 
it  seemed  out  of  nature  that  these  comparatively  young 
men  should  go  off  before  ancient  Mrs.  Pritchard;  and 
Mrs.  Pritchard  herself  baa-ed,  and  said  that  there  would 
be  more  room  now  in  the  Hafod  Unos  whatever.  But 
most  of  the  residents  were  new-comers  now,  who  knew 
more  of  Tommy  Kerr's  present  delinquencies  than  of 
the  history  of  his  brothers,  and  they  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  grieve.  They  buried  them  both  at  Sarn, 
under  the  shadow  of  that  pepper-caster  of  a  fifteenth- 
century  church  tower,  and  the  problem  of  however  the 
Hafod  had  held  them  all  became  a  thing  of  the  past. 

The  Town  Hall  was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  that 
Llanyglo  had  not  only  caught  up  with  Porth  Neigr,  but 
had  outstripped  it.  It  had  special  conveniences  for  a 

centre  of  administration,  which  it  forthwith  became; 

218 


THE  BLANK  CHEQUE  219 

and  at  the  election  that  Autumn  Howell  Gruffydd  was 
made  a  Councillor.  He  had  two  branch  shops  now,  one 
at  Forth  ]STeigr  and  the  other  at  Sarn,  and  to  his  news- 
paper counter  he  had  added  a  Library  of  books  bought 
at  Mudies'  clearance  sales.  He  charged  fourpence  a 
week  for  the  loan  of  each  book,  which  was  twopence 
more  than  the  old  stationer's  library  at  Forth  ISTeigr  had 
charged;  but  there  was  the  railway-fare  to  take  into 
account  if  you  considered  the  charge  extortionate. 
Later,  a  good  deal  later,  when  the  picture  postcard  was 
invented,  Howell  did  rather  well  out  of  that  too.  He 
praised  your  amateur  snapshot  of  the  Trwyn  or  the 
Promenade  of  the  fagade  of  the  Town  Hall,  and  made 
you  what  no  doubt  seemed  to  him  a  fair  offer ;  namely  to 
give  you  a  dozen  prints  in  exchange  for  your  film.  He 
then  proceeded  to  fill  a  revolving  stand  with  other 
prints,  which  he  sold  at  seven  for  sixpence,  or,  highly 
glazed,  at  twopence  apiece.  With  pennies  and  two- 
pences  accumulated  in  this  and  similar  ways  he  bought 
certain  house-property  behind  Ham-andEgg  Terrace, 
paying  a  ground-rent  to  Edward  Garden.  He  had  by 
this  time  acquired  a  little  personal  habit  of  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams's  —  the  habit  of  shaking  hands  with  one  hand, 
while  the  other  affectionately  kneaded  and  patted  his 
interlocutor's  right  arm  from  the  wrist  up  to  the 
shoulder. 

Hitherto  the  developments  of  Llanyglo  had  lain  in  a 
few  hands  only  —  the  hands  of  Edward  Garden  and  his 
shareholders,  of  one  or  two  others  who  had  forgotten 
they  had  a  holding  in  Terry  Armfield's  Thelema,  but 
remember  it  now  with  joy  and  thanksgiving,  of  Mr. 
Tudor  Williams,  and  of  not  very  many  more.  But  now 
a  more  ponderous  machine  began  to  rumble  into  motion. 
This  was  the  machine  of  which  the  Railway  Companies 


220  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

and  a  couple  of  Pleasure  Packet  Services  were  the  visible 
active  parts.  Rumours  now  began  to  fly  about  of  de- 
velopments long  since  planned  and  now  imminent, 
developments  astounding  and  gigantic.  These  rumours 
began  with  hotels.  Hitherto  the  "  Cambrian "  had 
been  thought  to  be  rather  more  than  so-so,  but  of  course 
nobody  would  have  dreamed  of  comparing  it  with  the 
"  Grands "  and  "  Majesties "  which  "  Lancashire 
Hotels,  Limited  "  possessed  in  the  great  centres  of  the 
ITorth.  These  had  half  a  dozen  tennis-courts  in  front, 
palm-courts  and  winter-gardens  behind,  and  five  and  six 
and  seven  hundred  bedrooms.  But  now  the  rumour  ran 
that,  not  one  of  these,  but  two,  owned  by  opposing  Syndi- 
cates, were  to  be  set  up  in  Llanyglo.  The  sites  on  which 
they  were  to  be  built  varied  according  to  the  version  of 
the  tale.  Some  said  that  the  "  Montgomery  "  was  to  be 
pulled  down  again,  some  that  the  whole  row  of  fisher- 
men's cottages  was  to  be  demolished,  some  that  a  terrace 
was  to  be  dug  out  of  the  side  of  the  Trwyn  itself  and  a 
funicular  railway  constructed.  However  it  might  be,  it 
was  known  that  there  were  prolonged  meetings  of  the 
Council  about  it,  and  that  at  one  point  the  whole  thing, 
whatever  it  might  be,  seemed  likely  to  fall  through. 
And  that,  as  they  now  knew,  would  be  their  death-blow. 
They  would  do  anything,  anything  rather  than  that  these 
immense  reservoirs  of  capital,  already  partly  opened, 
should  be  shut  up  again.  They  would  hold  out  the  town 
itself  as  security,  a  twopenny  rate,  promises,  accommo- 
dations, anything.  It  was  said  that  Sheard,  the  Porth 
Neigr  solicitor,  who  had  moved  to  new  premises  opposite 
the  Llanyglo  Town  Hall,  sat  up  five  nights  in  the  week, 
making  actuarial  calculations,  estimating  yields,  meas- 
uring margins,  and  balancing  all  with  the  possibility  of 
the  town's  bankruptcy.  Edward  Garden  was  once  more 


THE  BLANK  CHEQUE  221 

at  Llanyglo,  and  closeted  frequently  with  Mr.  Tudor 
Williams  and  Howell  Gruffydd.  .  .  .  Even  the  two 
projected  hotels  were  not  much  more  than  a  detail  as 
matters  now  stood;  the  whole  town  must  now  be  given 
a  tremendous  upward  heave  or  collapse  with  a  crash. 
Even  those  hotels  could  go  up  now  only  on  one  condi- 
tion —  namely,  that  the  base  of  the  visiting  population, 
that  foundation  of  which  innumerable  units  are  the 
strength,  should  at  once  be  immensely  broadened.  Eor 
every  individual  who  could  afford  to  put  up  at  a  palace, 
they  must  rake  in  scores,  hundreds  of  people  who  could 
not.  The  real  foundation  of  the  hotels  must  be  row  on 
row,  acre  on  acre,  of  Ham-and-Egg  Terraces.  For  the 
rest,  a  place  that  must  live  through  the  year  on  the 
takings  of  three  months  must  be  big,  as  those  places  of 
entertainment  must  be  big  that  are  full  on  Saturdays 
only  and  empty  during  the  rest  of  the  week.  Nothing 
smaller  would  tempt  the  Railway  Companies.  (This, 
by  the  way,  was  not  altogether  good  news  for  Raymond 
Briggs.  Architecture  is  not  needed  for  that  broadened 
base.  Any  working  master-builder  can  run  up  houses 
that  are  good  enough.  The  pattern  of  one  is  the  pattern 
of  all,  and  Raymond  would  have  small  chance  in  compe- 
tition with  the  bigger  men  of  his  profession.) 

Nor  would  it  suffice  merely  to  house  and  feed  the 
people  who  came.  Other  watering-places  were  awake 
to  the  new  menace  now,  so  that  the  rival  announce- 
ments on  the  hoardings  resembled  a  desperate  grapple 
for  the  possession  of  those  sixpences  and  shillings  and 
half-crowns  that  were  poured  without  ceasing  into  the 
coffers  of  the  Holiday  Clubs.  Not  one  in  five  hundred 
of  those  who  contributed  those  shillings  and  half-crowns 
stopped  to  think  that  Wales  herself  has  no  Holiday  Clubs 
—  that  Wales  does  not  go  abroad  with  a  year's  savings 


222  MUSHEOOM  TOWN 

in  her  pocket  of  which  it  is  black  shame  to  bring  as  much 
as  a  single  penny  back  again.  They  wanted  amusement. 
The  Resort  or  Spa  that  could  provide  the  most  amuse- 
ment would  get  the  lion's  share.  Amusements  were  a 
more  urgent  necessity  than  chairs  and  tables  and  roofs. 

So  it  was  that,  between  this  place  and  that,  the 
people  who  intended  to  have  a  better  time  than  their 
fathers  had  had  were  in  some  danger  of  being  pampered. 

The  project  for  the  Llanyglo  Big  Wheel  was  set 
a-going. 

The  promise  that  Howell  Gruffydd  had  made  behind 
his  hand  to  John  Pritchard  had  already  begun  to  be 
redeemed.  The  Town  Hall  was  not  three  months  old 
before  a  Grand  Bazaar  was  held  there  in  aid  of  the 
Llanyglo  Joint  Chapels.  On  the  first  of  the  four  days 
during  which  the  Bazaar  lasted  the  proceedings  were 
opened  by  Tudor  Williams,  Esquire,  M.P.  On  the 
second  day  they  were  opened  by  Edward  Garden, 
Esquire.  On  the  third  Mrs.  Howell  Gruffydd  opened 
them,  in  heliotrope  satin;  and  on  the  fourth  day  Ray- 
mond Briggs,  Esquire,  who  scented  Chapel-building  in 
the  air,  performed  the  ceremony.  Raymond  guessed 
that  at  least  three  new  Chapels  were  certain  presently 
to  go  up  in  the  stead  of  those  buildings  of  tin  and  boards 
and  sickly  blue  paint  that  had  so  outraged  Terry  Arm- 
field's  Oxford  Movement  susceptibilities.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  five  went  up,  and  have  debts  on  them  to  this  day, 
in  spite  of  the  long  series  of  Bazaars,  two  a  season  at 
least,  at  which  the  Saxon  veins  were  opened.  .  .  .  For 
the  money  poured  in.  It  rained  into  the  square  collect- 
ing-sheets that  were  placed  at  intervals  along  all  the 
principal  streets.  It  clattered  into  the  slots  of  the 
wooden  boxes  that  were  rattled  under  the  nose  of  the 
passer-by.  It  was  minted  in  the  Bran  Tubs  from  which, 


THE  BLANK  CHEQUE  223 

paying  your  threepence,  you  drew  forth  a  penny  toy. 
It  multiplied  with  every  flower  Miss  Nancy  Pritchard, 
with  twenty  other  young  women  in  Welsh  national  cos- 
tume, sold.  It  made  heavy  the  pockets  of  the  stall- 
holders, who  had  never  any  change.  It  made  little 
cylinders  of  silver  and  copper,  three  and  four  and  five 
inches  high,  on  the  tables  folk  had  to  pass  before  they 
were  admitted  to  the  Concerts.  .  .  .  Believe  it,  the 
Chapel-goers  of  Llanyglo,  seeing  all  that  money  to  be 
had  for  little  more  than  the  asking,  opened  their  eyes, 
and  sat  up,  and  took  notice.  If  this  was  the  Saxon 
invasion,  why  had  they  not  welcomed  it  long  ago  ?  A 
few  bales  of  hired  bunting,  a  few  pounds  for  evergreens 
and  velvet  banners  with  texts  on  them,  a  few  paid  assist- 
ants and  a  not  unreasonable  printers'  bill,  and  —  these 
splendid  results! 

As  big  as  John  Pritchard  himself  said,  putting  on 
his  spectacles  to  see  whether  the  astonishing  total  could 
really  be  true,  "  They  must  be  very  rit-ss,  whatever !  " 

But  the  Bazaars  had  not  this  golden  harvest  to  them- 
selves. They  found  competition,  which  they  a  little 
resented.  Secular  amusements  more  than  held  their 
own.  Gigantic  castings  had  begun  to  arrive  for  the 
Big  Wheel;  under  the  booth-awnings  of  Gardd  Street 
(recently  christened)  penny  articles  could  be  had  for 
a  penny;  and  a  long  row  of  automatic  machines  — 
Wheels  of  Fortune,  little  iron  men  who  kicked  footballs, 
Sibyls  of  Fate  and  Try-your-Grip  machines  —  had 
sprung  up  along  the  railings  of  the  sea-front.  A  few 
stage-gipsies  with  green  parrakeets  had  made  the  town 
their  summer  home.  There  was  a  rifle-range  on  the 
farther  sandhills  —  you  could  hear  the  "  plunk  "  of  the 
bullets  on  the  iron  targets.  Near  it  was  a  travelling 
Herry-go-Kound.  Photographers  had  their  "  pitches  " 


224  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

on  the  sands,  with  humourous  canvas  flats  with  oval 
holes  in  them,  through  which  you  put  your  face,  so  that 
you  could  have  your  portrait  taken  as  "  E e  Won't  be 
Happy  till  He  Gets  It "  or  in  the  act  of  embracing  a  two- 
dimensional  young  woman,  whichever  was  to  your 
liking.  And  there  were  niggers.  These  danced  and 
sang  and  played  the  banjo  on  a  raised  platform,  dressed 
in  wide  turned-down  schoolboy  collars  and  pink  striped 
trousers;  the  concentric  rings  of  green  chairs  about 
them  resembled  the  spread  of  a  large  symmetrical 
thistle  plant;  and  outside  this  ring  one  or  other  of  the 
troupe  constantly  moved,  shaking  a  sort  of  jellybag 
under  your  nose  (as  the  Chapel-goers  had  shaken  the 
collecting-boxes)  and  blinking  the  pink  lids  in  his  burnt- 
cork  face.  A  little  farther  on  was  the  men's  bathing- 
place.  They  had  wooden  machines  now,  into  which 
youths  entered  four  at  a  time  —  no  more  the  trim  and 
private  striped  tents  of  the  Laceys  and  the  Raymond 
Briggses.  The  ladies'  bathing-place  was  farther  on 
still  —  a  boat  stood  off  between  the  two  lest  the  sexes 
should  not  keep  their  distance.  And  a  hundred  yards 
past  that,  beyond  a  great  scabrous  groyne  of  loose  stone, 
clay-coloured  at  the  shore  end  but  slimy  with  green  as  it 
ran  down  to  the  sea,  with  red  flags  and  notice-boards 
along  the  top  and  a  moveable  rope-barrier  at  its  base 
where  two  men  walked  on  sentry-go,  they  were  at  work 
upon  the  Pier. 

By  this  time  there  was  one  question  which,  more 
than  others,  was  beginning  to  disturb  Llanyglo.  This 
was  the  question  of  drink.  In  the  old  days,  when  the 
old  brown  horse  who  had  walked  as  carefully  as  if  he 
had  had  a  spirit-level  inside  him  had  first  brought  the 
Gardens  and  their  luggage  so  softly  over  the  sandhills, 
there  had  been  no  inn  nearer  than  Forth  Neigr.  Save 


THE  BLANK  CHEQUE  225 

on  market-days,  scarce  a  drop  of  alcohol  passed  a  Llany- 
glo  man's  lips  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  If  John 
Pritchard  had  preached  occasionally  against  drunken- 
ness, it  had  been  conventionally  only,  with  little  more 
bearing  on  Llanyglo's  own  habits  than  if  he  had  preached 
against  cannibalism.  Then  Railhead  had  crawled 
across  the  land ;  Howell  Gruffydd  had  found  it  necessary 
to  warn  the  young  against  contamination ;  and  with  the 
building  of  the  "  Cambrian  "  had  come  Llanyglo's  first 
licence. 

But  for  long  enough  after  that  there  had  been  no 
public-houses.  The  travelling  army  of  labourers  had 
had  their  own  canteens,  and  even  when  a  necessary  beer- 
licence  or  two  had  been  applied  for  at  Sessions,  the  appli- 
cations had  been  granted  as  it  were  behind  the  hand,  and 
the  affair  had  been  got  over  as  quickly  as  possible.  No : 
Tommy  Kerr's  unconscious  soft  carolling  of  Glan 
Meddwdod  Mwyn  as  he  had  crossed  the  sandhills  on 
that  torrid  Sunday  afternoon  had  held  no  real  personal 
reproach  for  Llanyglo.  For  Forth  Neigr,  perhaps  yes ; 
for  other  places,  yes ;  but  not  for  Llanyglo. 

But  since  then  things  had  changed.  Things  had 
changed  since  they  had  been  able  to  tell  themselves  that 
what  went  on  in  the  "  Cambrian  "  lounge  was  no  con- 
cern of  theirs.  They  had  begun  to  change  when  Llany- 
glo had  been  no  longer  able  to  shut  its  eyes  to  the  beer- 
drinking  of  the  navvies  and  bricklayers  and  the  brothers 
Kerr.  Then  for  a  time  a  convenient  connection  had 
been  established  between  drunkenness  and  rough 
trousers  tied  about  the  knees  with  string.  For  cases 
such  as  these,  the  little  Station  at  the  extreme  end  of 
Gardd  Street,  with  "  Police  "  over  the  door  and  gerani- 
ums in  the  windows,  had  ample  powers.  The  half-dozen 
constables  must  exercise  discretion,  that  was  all. 


226  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

But  it  became  a  not  uncommon  sight  to  see  a  tipsy 
reveller  singing  himself  unsteadily  home  on  one  side  of 
the  street,  while  the  officer,  watching  him  from  the  other 
side,  stood  questioning  his  discretion  until  the  delin- 
quent had  passed  out  of  sight.  For  a  time  Tommy 
Kerr,  who  had  been  twice  run  in,  had  served  as  a  scape- 
goat, but  that  was  little  permanent  help.  It  began  to  be 
seen  that  the  real  problem  was,  that  if  they  would  get 
folk  with  money  to  spend  into  the  town,  they  must  accept 
these  folk,  within  reason,  as  they  were,  tipplers  and 
teetotalers  alike.  For  some  reason  or  other,  convivial 
drinking  also  seemed  to  come  under  the  head  of  amuse- 
ments. Blackpool  provided  liquor;  Douglas  was  in  an 
exceptional  position  for  the  provision  of  liquor;  and 
more  and  more  it  appeared  that  Llanyglo  must  open  the 
Bazaar  doors  with  one  hand  and  the  doors  of  inns  and 
taverns  with  the  other. 

Meanwhile,  the  "  Lancashire  Rose,"  on  one  side  of 
Gardd  Street,  and  the  "  Trafford  "  on  the  other,  were 
quickly  becoming  notorious.  These  were  both  fully 
licenced  houses,  with  Tap  and  Saloon  entrances,  and  it 
was  idle  to  pretend  to  think  that  all  the  scandal  origi- 
nated in  the  humbler  compartments.  Heady  young  men 
with  full  pockets,  respectable  fathers  of  families,  and 
others  whom  they  could  by  no  means  lock  up  as  they 
could  lock  up  Tommy  Kerr,  went  into  these  places  in 
broad  daylight,  sometimes  coming  out  again  obviously 
affected:  and  it  was  almost  certain  that  not  all  their 
stomachs  were  so  innocent  and  unaccustomed  that  a 
single  glass  of  the  poison  had  produced  this  result. 
Dolefully  they  wished  that  a  sober  Lancashire  would 
come  to  Llanyglo ;  but  —  a  Lancashire  of  some  sort  they 
must  have.  Why  else  were  they  doing  all  they  could 


THE  BLANK  CHEQUE  227 

to  win  its  favour  ?  What  else  was  their  Big  Wheel  for, 
of  which  four  mammoth  standards  of  plate  and  lattice- 
girder  had  already  risen  thirty  feet  above  the  sandhills, 
where  they  were  stepped  and  anchored  into  the  oldest 
rocks  of  earth?  Why  else  were  they  toiling  day  and 
night  at  their  Pier,  and  at  the  building,  section  by  sec- 
tion, of  the  sea-wall?  Why  else  were  they  setting  up 
gasometers  beyond  Pritchard's,  and  discussing  a  Sewage 
Scheme,  and  —  most  urgent  of  all  —  gnawing  their 
fingers  anxiously  until  some  arrangement  should  be 
come  to  with  Edward  Garden's  lawyers  about  that 
water  far  away  up  Delyn  ?  The  supply  was  becoming 
terrifyingly  insufficient.  For  want  of  mere  water  the 
growth  of  the  town  might  come  to  a  stop  as  plants 
shrivel  and  fall  again  in  an  arid  bed.  .  .  .  And,  save  to 
get  Lancashire  folk  there,  drunk  or  sober,  why  did  they 
solemnly  discuss  this  inanity  of  an  amusement  or  that  — 
Big  Wheels  and  Switchbacks,  Scenic  Railways,  Tobog- 
gan Slides,  Panoramas,  Fat  Women,  Dancing  Halls, 
Floral  Valleys  and  Concerts  and  Town  Bands  ?  There 
was  no  going  back  now.  They  had  spent  money  that 
they  would  never,  never  see  again  if  they  persisted  in 
being  visionaries  in  business  and  irreconcilables  on  mere 
minor  points  of  demeanour.  .  .  . 

"  They  spend  more  when  they  are  .  .  .  like  that," 
said  Howell  Gruffydd  one  day  to  the  Council  assembled. 
He  said  it  a  little  shamefacedly,  his  fingers  fiddling  with 
the  green  cloth  of  the  Council-table. 

Nobody  spoke. 

"I  —  saw  —  a  —  man,"  Howell  continued,  "  a  re- 
spectable man,  with  good  clothes  on  his  back  and  a  new 
hat,  all  spoiled  —  it  was  a  pity  to  see  it  —  I  saw  him 
knock  over  row  of  bot-tles  at  John  Parry's  in  Gardd 


228  MUSHKOOM  TOWN 

Street,  just  for  amusement,  and  lie  laugh,  and  say  '  How 
mut-ss  ?  '     like    it     wass     noth-thing,     he     was     so-a 


"  It  is  a  pit-ty  they  make  such  a  noise  sometimes," 
somebody  said,  in  a  curiously  aggrieved  voice.  .  .  . 

Evan  Pugh,  the  landlord  of  the  "  Trafford,"  was  of 
precisely  the  same  opinion. 

They  escaped  their  dilemma  by  means  of  a  noteworthy 
bit  of  government  by  minority.  There  was  a  small  sec- 
tion of  the  Council,  easily  outvotable  at  ordinary  times, 
which  urged  that,  after  all,  things  were  as  they  were, 
that  you  must  live  and  let  live  in  this  world,  and  that 
even  good  things  could  be  pushed  to  extremes  when  they 
became  no  longer  good.  And,  as  these  began  to  speak, 
one  stern  bazaar-promoter  after  another  began  to  look 
at  his  watch  and  to  mutter  "  Dear  me  —  I  had  no  idea 
it  wass  so  late  —  indeed  I  not  catss  him  if  I  not  go 
now  -  ' 

They  left. 

This,  or  else  a  tactful  absenteeism,  became  their  cus- 
tom whenever  licencing  matters  came  up  to  be  discussed. 

But  cases  of  conscience  are  cases  of  conscience  all 
the  world  over. 

The  sum  that  Edward  Garden  proposed  as  a  fair 
price  for  that  catchment-area  up  Delyn  was  two  hundred 
thousand  pounds  —  this  for  about  two  thousand  acres  ; 
and  on  the  day  when  his  lawyers  named  the  figure  it 
was  a  wonder  that  the  whole  Council  did  not  take  in  a 
body  to  their  beds.  Two  hundred  thousand  pounds! 
They  could  not  believe  their  ears.  Nor  could  they  be- 
lieve their  eyes  either  when  they  got  it  in  writing,  words 
first,  and  the  figures  in  brackets  afterwards.  If  they 
had  written  the  single  word  "  Fancy  !  "  across  that  doc- 
ument and  sent  it  straightway  back  to  the  lawyers  they 


THE  BLANK  CHEQUE  229 

would  no  doubt  have  followed  their  first  impulse;  but 
somebody,  less  hard  hit  in  the  wind  than  the  rest,  man- 
aged to  gasp  out  the  proposal  that  they  should  sleep  on 
it,  and  sleep  on  it  they  did.  But  the  night  did  not  alter 
it.  In  the  morning  it  was  still  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds  (£200,000). 

News  of  the  rapacity  of  the  demand  had  leaked  out 
almost  immediately.  Ordinarily,  anybody  who  had 
stopped  Howell  Gruffydd  in  the  street  and  had  asked 
him  a  Council  secret  would  have  been  met  with  the 
smiling  facer  he  deserved,  but  this  was  extraordinary 
altogether.  On  the  morning  after  they  had  slept  on  it, 
William  Morgan  saw  Howell  on  the  Promenade,  came 
up  to  him,  and,  making  no  bones  about  it  whatever,  asked 
him  whether  it  was  true. 

"  Who  told  you,  William  Morgan  ? "  Howell  be- 
gan .  .  .  but  he  really  had  not  the  heart  to  go  on.  He 
took  off  his  hat,  wiped  the  lining  of  it  with  his  handker- 
chief, and  the  bright  sunlight  showed  his  brows  lined 
with  anxiety  and  sick  fear,  crumpled  and  embossed 
like  one  of  his  own  pats  of  butter.  He  replaced  his 
hat  and  blew  his  nose  violently. 

"  Is  it  true  ?  "  demanded  William  Morgan  again. 

Howell  became  grim. — "  It  was  an  e-vil  day  for  this 
town  when  that  man  came  here,"  he  said,  forgetting  how 
little  town  there  had  been  when  that  old  brown  horse 
had  first  brought  the  Gardens  softly  jolting  across  the 
sandhills. 

"  Then  it  is  true  ?  "  said  William  Morgan  once  again. 

"  It  is  true  that  a  man  sometimes  asks  one  thing,  and 
finiss  by  getting  something  very  diff-ferent  from  what 
he  ask,"  Howell  replied,  and  walked  abruptly  away. 

He  crossed  the  Promenade  and  turned  into  Pont- 
newydd  Street.  There  he  stood,  irresolutely  plucking 


230  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

his  lip  and  gazing  into  a  stationer's  window.  Dafydd 
Dafis's  voice  in  his  ear  caused  him  to  start  almost  vio- 
lently. 

"H-what  is  this,  Howell  Gniffydd?"  Dafydd  de- 
manded without  preface,  his  eyes  burningly  and  trucu- 
lently on  the  Chairman's  face.  He  wore  his  everyday 
corduroys,  but  his  air  was  that  of  a  monarch  in  banish- 
ment. Howell  turned. 

"  Ah,  how  are  you,  Dafydd  ?  Indeed  you  look  well ! 
They  do  say  the  smell  of  road-tar  is  a  very  healthy 
smell " 

"H-what  is  this  we  hear,  Howell  Gruffydd?" 
Dafydd  repeated. 

Howell  tried  to  smile. — "  Indeed,  how  can  I  answer 
a  question  like  that,  '  What  is  this  we  hear  ? ' " 

"  H-what  is  this  about  Delyn  and  the  Water  ?  " 

There  was  a  dangerous  quickness  in  Dafydd's  voice. 
Involuntarily  Howell  gave  a  little  hiccough  of  emotion, 
which  answered  Dafydd  sufficiently.  His  eyes  were 
like  the  windows  of  a  burning  house. 

"  He  sell  us  two  thousand  acres,  of  our  own  land,  for 
how  mut-ss  ? " 

"  Two  —  hundred  —  thou-sand  —  pounds,"  sobbed 
Howell. 

"  Of  our  own  mountains  —  Delyn,  that  belong  to 
us  —  he  sell  us  Delyn,  this  Saxon  ? " 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  Dafydd,  do  not  excite  yourself  — 
it  will  have  to  go  to  arbi-tra-tion " 

"  It  will  go  to  Hell,  with  his  soul !  "  Dafydd  replied 
fiercely.  "  He  sell  us  Delyn  —  he  sell  us  Delyn  water 
—  he  sell  us  our  own  moun-tains !  —  It  iss  not  for  this 
we  make  you  Chairman  of  the  Council,  Howell 
Gruffydd!" 

Howell  trembled,  but  put  up  a  soothing  hand. 


231 

"  Aw-w-w,  you  wait  and  see,  Dafydd  Dafis !  A  prof- 
fit  is  a  prof-fit,  but  this  is  wick-ed,  and  preposterous,  and 
out  of  all  reason !  You  wait  and  see !  We  have  a  meet- 
ing this  morning,  and  p'rapss  we  show  Mister  Edward 
Garden  he  is  not  so  clever  as  he  think  he  is !  He  think 
he  put  his  Saxon  pistol  to  our  heads  like  this  ?  Indeed 
he  make  a  great  mistake !  You  wait  and  see,  Dafydd. 
There  iss  a  saying,  l  He  laughs  best  who  laughs  last ' — 
you  wait  and  see !  "  He  patted  Dafydd's  shoulder  and 
arm  reassuringly,  and  perhaps  felt  heartened  by  his  own 
words.  "  You  wait  and  see !  "  he  said  once  more, 
almost  cheerily  now.  "  We  not  pay  it  —  never  fear ! 
I  see  you  later " 

And  he  hurried  away,  leaving  Dafydd  standing  on 
the  pavement. 

But  the  Council  Meeting  that  morning  settled  noth- 
ing, and  neither  did  the  next  Meeting  nor  the  next  after 
that.  They  wrote  to  Mr.  Tudor  Williams,  but  it  almost 
looked  as  if  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  was  taking  a  leaf  out 
of  their  own  book :  if  they  had  pressing  private  affairs 
when  questions  of  ales  and  wines  and  spirits  appeared 
on  the  agenda,  so  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  pleaded  a  multi- 
plicity of  urgent  engagements  now  that  it  was  a  question 
of  water.  The  meeting  adjourned,  reassembled,  ad- 
journed again,  and  met  again.  Days  passed,  weeks 
passed.  Legal  opinions  were  taken,  but  no  action. 
They  fetched  Mr.  Tudor  Williams  down  almost  by  force, 
and  he  proffered  his  good  offices,  but  deprecated  the 
serving  of  notices  of  compulsory  arbitration.  He  ad- 
vised an  amicable  settlement  if  one  could  possibly  be 
arrived .  at.  Llanyglo's  anger  died  away,  and  blank 
despair  began  to  take  its  place. 

Then  one  day  Edward  Garden's  lawyers  hinted  that 
in  the  event  of  an  arrangement  being  come  to  within 


232  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

a  given  time  they  were  in  a  position  to  enter  into  certain 
pledges  on  behalf  of  the  Railway  Companies.  They 
hinted  also  that  they  were  equally  in  a  position  to  do 
the  other  thing.  Surely,  they  said,  Llanyglo  saw  that 
this  was  a  matter  of  its  life  or  its  death ;  and  surely,  they 
added,  it  was  plain  that  it  would  not  really  be  they  who 
were  paying !  Nothing  of  the  sort !  Lancashire  would 
pay.  Yorkshire  would  pay.  The  Midlands  would 
help  to  pay,  and  perhaps  also  the  West  and  South. 
Whoever  footed  his  bill  at  hotel  or  boarding-establish- 
ment would  be  contributing  —  they  must  see  that  he 
did  contribute  —  his  portion.  What  though  visitors 
grumbled  and  talked  about  extortion  ?  They  forgot  all 
about  it  the  next  day.  What  though  residents  groaned 
under  the  burden  of  the  rates  ?  They  must  submit  to 
conditions,  like '  everybody  else.  Llanyglo  must  pay, 
and  pass  it  on. 

In  short,  all  the  people  who  intended  to  have  a  better 
time  than  their  fathers  had  had  were  to  be  shaven  and 
shorn  exactly  as  their  fathers  had  been. 

Llanyglo  saw  it,  sighed,  and  acquiesced.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  do. 

And  if  Parry,  of  the  "  Lancashire  Rose,"  or  Pugh, 
of  the  "  Trafford,"  reaped  too  rich  a  harvest  by  making 
people  drunk,  they  must  be  assessed  higher  and  higher 
still,  and  still  higher,  that  was  alL 


IV 

PAWB. 

THIS  question  of  assessment  had  already  raised 
another  question,  which  at  first  seemed  a  small 
one,  but  swelled  afterwards  into  ominous  proportions. 
When  the  rumours  of  those  two  towering  new  hotels  had 
first  begun  to  circulate,  it  had  been  a  gentle  and  stimu- 
lating mental  exercise  to  place,  in  fancy,  these  palaces 
on  this  spot  or  that.  Among  other  suggestions,  the 
vacant  plot  of  land  adjacent  to  the  Kerrs'  Hafod  Unos 
had  been  mentioned  as  a  fitting  site  for  one  of  them. 
Hereupon  folk  had  begun  to  ask  one  another:  What 
about  the  Kerrs'  title  ? 

Hitherto  they  had  not  thought  of  this.  The  four 
brothers  had  planted  themselves  there  when  all  about 
had  been  a  waste  of  sand,  had  since  taken  firm  root, 
and  there  two  of  them  still  remained.  But  between 
such  a  squatting  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  and  a  sitting 
tight  now  that  everything  had  gone  up  a  hundredfold  in 
value,  was  an  immense  difference.  To  this  difference, 
moreover,  was  now  added  the  evil  repute  in  which  • 
Tommy  Kerr  lived.  Ned,  the  alder-cutter,  they  would 
have  accepted;  they  could  live  with  Ned;  but  his 
brother,  besides  being  in  his  unpleasant  person  a  public  t 
nuisance,  was  beginning  to  appear  a  setter-back  of  the 
fingers  of  History's  clock,  a  mongrel  in  their  fine  new 
manger,  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  that  lusty  young  Welsh 

Giantess  whose  figure  was  now  one  of  the  familiar 

233 


234:  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

sights  on  a  thousand  hoardings  in  the  ISTorth.  The  in- 
visible odour  of  stale  beer-fumes  in  which  he  moved 
poisoned  the  air  of  the  Promenade,  and,  though  he  cer- 
tainly did  his  best  to  remedy  this  as  far  as  the  staleness 
was  concerned  (invariably  beginning  the  day  with  pints 
and  ending  it  with  quarts),  that  did  not  improve  mat- 
ters in  the  long  run. 

As  long  as  Tommy  Kerr  was  merely  locked  up  once 
in  a  while  for  drunkenness,  he  himself  paid  no  heed  to 
the  whispers  that  had  begun  to  gather  about  him.  He 
could  sleep  as  heavily  and  happily  in  a  cell  as  in  his 
own  Hafod.  Nor  were  his  eyes  at  once  opened  even 
when  an  inspector  appeared  at  the  Hafod  and  began  to 
ask  questions  about  its  sanitation  —  which,  by  the  way, 
was  of  a  low  order.  But  his  brother  Ned  began  to 
"  study,"  as  he  called  it,  and  the  result  of  his  studying 
was  that  he  said  one  day  to  Tommy,  "  They'll  be  want- 
ing to  be  shut  o'  you  and  me,  Tommy." 

Tommy  was  in  the  act  of  wiping  out  a  greasy  frying- 
pan  with  a  piece  of  old  newspaper.  He  stopped  sud- 
denly. After  a  pause,  "Eh?"  he  said.  .  .  .  "D'ye 
mean  purr  us  out  ?  " 

"  We're  a  bit  i'  t'  road  to  my  way  o'  thinking,"  Ned 
replied,  sinking  back  into  his  arm-chair  again  and 
closing  his  eyes. 

He  had  taken  badly  to  heart  the  deaths  of  his 
brothers  Harry  and  Sam;  indeed  he  had  not  been  the 
same  man  since.  He  frequently  walked  over  to  Sarn 
churchyard,  sat  on  a  flat  tombstone  near  his  brothers' 
grave,  and  smoked  and  spat ;  he  was  "  studying  "  about 
a  stone  for  them.  Intermittently  he  talked  about  carv- 
ing this  with  his  own  hands,  but  he  delayed  to  do  so. 
All  the  work  he  now  did  was  to  doze  in  a  street-watch- 
man's hut,  with  a  two-days-old  newspaper  on  his  knee 


PAWB  235 

and  a  firebasket  in  front  of  him  set  sideways  on  the 
wind.  He  was  no  longer  the  beer-drinker  he  had  been. 
"  Think  ye  ? "  said  Tommy,  after  another  silence. 
"  But  we  donnot  want  to  be  purred  out,"  he  added 
resuming  the  wiping  of  the  frying-pan,  though  more 
slowly. 

And  as  it  seemed  to  be  a  condition  of  their  remaining 
in  their  Hafod  unmolested  that  they  should  make  a  show 
of  satisfying  the  sanitary  inspector's  demands,  they 
overhauled  their  drainage  system  and  gave  it  the  mini- 
mum of  attention  it  demanded. 

Then  one  day  an  offer  was  made  them,  which  was  also 
an  admission.  It  was  an  offer  of  compensation  and  of 
another  dwelling  elsewhere,  and  the  admission  appar- 
ently was  that  their  title  was  a  good  one.  Ned  was  for 
accepting  the  offer,  and  accepted  it  would  probably  have 
been  but  for  a  circumstance  that  Tommy  discovered  only 
in  a  roundabout  way.  He  was  congratulated  one  morn- 
ing in  the  "  Marine  "  Tap  on  having  escaped  ejectment. 
This  was  the  first  he  had  heard  of  ejectment.  He  asked 
a  few  questions,  and  soon  after  went  out  for  a  walk. 

Ejectment!  Apparently  they  had  been  considering 
his  ejectment,  had  found  it  for  some  reason  or  other  not 
to  be  feasible,  and  had  substituted  the  offer  of  compensa- 
tion. .  .  . 

Then,  while  this  offer  was  still  neither  accepted  nor 
rejected,  something  else  came  to  Tommy  Kerr's  ears. 
This  was  that  the  sites,  not  of  one,  but  of  both  the  new 
hotels,  were  at  last  decided  on.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
this  choice  was  now  almost  a  foregone  conclusion.  Next 
to  Gardd  Street,  which  ran  parallel  with  the  shore,  Pont- 
newydd  Street,  in  which  lay  the  Hafod,  was  becoming 
the  principal  street  of  the  town.  It  ran  from  the  shore 
to  Pritchard's  Corner,  was  prolonged  past  that  to  the 


236  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

new  station,  and  was  the  main  thoroughfare  for  landaus 
and  wagonettes  off  to  the  mountains.  The  hotels  were  to 
be  built  one  on  either  side  of  the  Hafod,  not  actually 
adjoining  it,  but  not  more  than  a  couple  of  strides  away. 

Already  in  Tommy  Kerr's  suspicious  mind  the 
mischief  was  done.  Howell  Gruffydd,  all  blandish- 
ments to  his  face,  had  been  making  secret  inquiries 
behind  his  back,  had  he?  He  had  been  talking  about 
compensation  and  whispering  with  attorneys  and 
such-like,  had  he?  Very  well.  That  settled  it. 
Tommy  would  go  when  he  was  purred  out,  and  not 
before.  As  for  that  snuffling  Howell  Gruffydd.  .  .  . 

"  So  that's  it,  Mister  Treacle-Tongue,  is  it  ? "  he  had 
muttered.  "  Reight.  As  long  as  we  know  where  we 
are.  I'm  off  out  to  buy  a  ha'porth  o'  thread " 

And  with  the  ha'porth  of  thread  he  had  sewn  a  large 
button  on  each  of  his  pocket-flaps,  and  thenceforward 
meeting  Howell  Gruffydd  in  the  street,  had  osten- 
tatiously buttoned  every  pocket  up  before  answering  the 
prosperous  grocer's  smiling  "  Good  morning." 

They  began  to  dig  the  foundations  of  those  glittering 
hotels. 

They  did  so,  as  it  happened,  in  the  early  part  of  that 
same  summer  that  saw  Edward  Garden's  ingenious  ad- 
vertisements put  into  execution  —  the  summer  of  the 
Eisteddfod  and  the  Brass  Band  Contest.  Llanyglo  was 
packed  with  people.  Two  days  before  the  Eisteddfod, 
there  began  to  troop  into  the  town  from  all  parts  bards 
and  singers,  poets  and  harpers  and  minstrels  and  the 
members  of  a  chorus  five  hundred  voices  strong.  They 
came  in  their  everyday  clothes,  moustached  like  vikings, 
bearded  and  maned  like  lions,  and  instantly  with  their 
coming  the  Saxon  took  a  back  seat.  Shopkeepers  left 
their  counters,  publicans  clapped  down  the  half-filled 


PAWB  237 

glasses,  and  ran  to  their  doors  as  this  honoured  singer 
or  that  famous  bard  passed  their  windows.  They  walked 
with  stately  slow  walk  and  stately  slow  head-turnings, 
and  happy  was  the  Welshman  who  got  a  motion  of  the 
hand  or  a  henign  smile  from  them.  The  Gorsedd  had 
been  publicly  proclaimed;  the  temporary  dancing  hall 
behind  Gardd  Street,  big  enough  for  a  regiment  to  drill 
in,  had  been  made  ready ;  the  insignia  in  the  Town  Hall 
were  as  jealously  watched  and  guarded  as  are  the  Crown 
Jewels  in  the  Tower  of  London ;  and  he  was  a  prudent 
visitor  who  had  realised  that  for  three  whole  days  he 
was  likely  to  get  but  negligent  attention  from  those  who 
at  other  times  were  his  humble  servitors.  For,  fleer  as 
aliens  would,  this  was  the  Awakening  of  the  Eed  Dragon. 
Their  reproach  that  he  was  but  a  pasteboard  Dragon  fell 
to  the  ground.  The  Dragon  was  what  the  Dragon  was, 
and  if  his  service  was  theatrical,  theatricalism  is  en- 
nobled when  its  boards  are  the  soil  itself  and  each  of  its 
actors  an  Antaeus,  strong  because  his  foot  is  upon  the 
ground  that  bred  him.  In  England,  behind  his  smile, 
the  Welshman  is  an  enigma  of  reserve;  but  see  him  at 
his  Eisteddfod,  with  money  waiting  to  be  taken  at  his 
closed  shop-doors.  .  .  . 

With  the  ceremony  of  the  Gorsedd  on  the  opening  day 
Dafydd  Dafis's  spellbound  and  uplifted  hours  began. 
At  the  sounding  of  the  trumpets  his  head  flew  proudly 
up ;  at  the  Drawing  of  the  Sword  and  the  solemn  ques- 
tion, "  Is  there  Peace  in  the  land  ?  "  his  voice  joined  in 
the  reply,  like  a  thunder-clap,  "  There  is  Peace  " —  for 
that  was  before  the  year  when,  for  three  whole  days,  the 
blade  remained  naked  and  bright,  while  far  over  the  seas 
brave  Englishmen  and  brave  Welshmen  fell  and  died 
together.  It  was  the  single  victory  of  Dafydd's  life. 
On  ordinary  days  he  now  drove  a  road-engine  —  Howell 


238  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Gruffydd  had  got  him  the  job  under  the  Council;  but 
he  was  a  Lord  of  Song  now.  He  had  put  his  name  down 
for  the  "  penillion  "  contest ;  should  he  prove  successful, 
not  he  himself  only,  but  Llanyglo  also,  the  place  of 
his  birth,  would  be  forever  famous.  He  sat  behind 
the  semicircle  of  white-robed  and  oak-crowned  and 
druid-like  figures  that  occupied  the  front  part  of  the 
platform,  looking  down  on  the  vast  oblong  of  faces, 
Saxon  and  Welsh,  that  resembled  a  packed  bed  of 
London  Pride ;  he  was  in  the  tenor  wedge  of  the  chorus ; 
and  as  the  five  hundred  voices  pealed  together  you 
thought  of  the  roof  and  of  that  singer  whose  voice  had 
shivered  vessels  of  glass.  .  .  .  Coming  out  of  the  hall 
again  at  the  end  of  the  first  day,  Dafydd  was  still  in  his 
trance.  As  he  walked  along  the  street  past  the  "  Traf- 
ford "  Tap,  Tommy  Kerr,  who  sat  within  drinking, 
hailed  him  and  called  for  a  song,  while  one  of  his  boon 
companions  crying  "  Nay,  we  don't  ask  nobody  to  sing 
for  nowt !  "  cast  a  couple  of  pennies  on  the  ground ;  but 
Dafydd  seemed  neither  to  see  nor  to  hear.  At  the  break- 
up after  the  last  chorus  an  august  hand  had  been  placed 
on  Dafydd's  shoulder,  and  an  archangelic  voice  had 
spoken  to  him,  saying  that  he,  he  the  great  one,  had 
heard  of  Dafydd  Dafis;  and  what,  after  that,  did  pot- 
house insults  matter  ?  He  passed  on,  his  eyes  still  flash- 
ing and  his  face  shining  like  the  Silver  Chair  itself.  .  .  . 

Two  days  later  he  was  proclaimed  the  victor  in  the 
"  penillion "  contest,  and  on  the  day  after  that,  still 
drunk  with  song,  he  drove  his  road-engine  again.  And 
so  passed  Llanyglo's  first  Eisteddfod. 

The  Brass  Band  Contest  five  weeks  later  was  a 
triumph  in  a  different  way.  The  impression  now  was 
one,  not  of  unity,  but  of  the  keen  spirit  of  faction.  The 
"  Besses  o}  tli  Barn  "  were  at  the  crest  of  their  fame, 


PAWB  239 

but  the  "  Black  Dike  "  ran  them  close,  and  not  far  be- 
hind came  "  Wyke  Temperance "  and  "  Meltham 
Mills " ;  and  had  these  been,  not  Bands,  but  football 
teams,  local  rivalry  could  not  have  run  higher.  True, 
underneath  the  sporting  interest  lay  the  musical.  This 
performer's  "  lipping  "  and  the  "  triple-tonguing "  of 
the  other  were  matters  of  endless  debate  among  the  ex- 
pert ;  nuances  of  ensemble  and  attack  were  hotly  argued 
in  strong  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire  accents;  and  the 
devotees  were  ready  to  fight  with  their  fists  over  the  fame 
of  the  conductors  of  their  fancy.  But,  without  unity, 
the  Contest  proved,  for  all  save  the  Brass-band-maniacs, 
a  little  wearisome.  The  ear  began  to  revolt  against  the 
reiterated  "  test-piece,"  and  one  pitied  the  judge  hidden 
away  in  his  carefully  guarded  cubicle.  Fewer  Welsh 
attended  the  Contest  than  had  English  the  Eisteddfod, 
and  a  day  was  judged  sufficient  for  it.  After  a  sensa- 
tional replay  with  the  " Besses"  "  Black  Dike  "  took 
pride  of  place,  with  " Meltham  Mills"  third.  The 
strains  of  Zampa  and  The  Bronze  Horse  sounded  once 
more  only,  when  they  massed  the  Bands  in  the  evening  in 
the  Floral  Valley;  and  (the  Council  having  sanctioned 
a  charge  of  sixpence  as  the  fee  for  entrance)  the  sum  of 
£115  was  taken  at  the  temporary  barriers.  So  passed 
the  Brass  Band  Contest  also. 

By  the  June  of  that  year  the  understructure  of  the 
Pier  was  finished,  and  the  rest  was  advancing  with  the 
speed  of  paper-hanging.  The  contractors  were  under 
time-penalties  to  be  ready  for  the  formal  opening  on  the 
forthcoming  August  Bank  Holiday.  All  through  the 
night  the  sounds  of  the  planking  could  be  heard,  and 
pavilion-parts,  lettered  and  numbered  and  ready  gilded 
and  painted,  were  rushed  along  in  haste.  At  the  same 
time  the  Big  Wheel  began  to  resemble  the  largest  circle 


240  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

of  the  Floral  Valley  set  up  on  end ;  it  was  wonderful  to 
stand  beneath  it  and  to  gaze  up  through  the  intricacy  of 
tie  and  strut  and  lattice  at  the  sky.  Immense  hoard- 
ings filled  a  large  part  of  Pontnewydd  Street;  by  and 
by  they  would  be  taken  down  again,  and  the  fagades  of 
those  magnificent  new  hotels  would  appear;  but  Llany- 
glo  would  scarcely  turn  its  head  to  look  at  them.  They 
were  getting  used  to  this  now.  Besides,  they  had  plenty 
else  to  do.  The  town  was  so  full  that  they  were  turning 
away  money  into  its  nearest  place  of  overflow  —  Forth 
Neigr. 

Then,  in  the  beginning  of  August,  a  hundred  portents 
were  fulfilled.  There  began  to  run  into  the  station 
train  after  train,  with  three  or  four  faces  at  each  win- 
dow. Doors  opened  almost  before  the  engines  had  be- 
gun to  slow  down,  and  (as  if  the  trains  had  been  veins 
and  somebody  had  suddenly  slit  them  up,  spilling  out 
the  life  within)  the  platforms  were  suddenly  black  and 
overrun  with  people.  They  carried  bags,  baskets,  ham- 
pers, parcels,  stools,  pillows,  babies.  Inside  the  carriages 
they  left  crumpled  newspapers,  trodden  sandwiches, 
bottles,  nuts,  corks,  the  heads  and  tails  of  shrimps. 
Their  tickets  had  been  taken  miles  back  —  no  collecting- 
staff  could  have  coped  for  a  moment  with  the  emptying 
of  those  wheeled  and  windowed  veins  of  impoverished 
blood.  Parents  carrying  babies  stood  prudently  aside 
from  that  first  mad  rush  to  the  entrance.  Many  of  them 
had  been  up  since  half -past  four  that  morning ;  they  had 
spent  seven  hours  in  the  train,  twelve  and  thirteen  and 
fourteen  in  a  carriage,  standing,  sitting  on  one  another's 
knees,  lying  on  the  rows  of  feet;  and  now  they  made 
straight  for  air.  Certain  trains  had  been  told  off  for 
week-end  travellers ;  others  were  labelled  "  Special "  or 
"  Day  Excursion  Only"  Those  who  had  come  by  these 


PAWB  241 

would  have  seven  hours  in  Llanyglo,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  time  they  would  squeeze  into  the  trains  again  for 
seven,  eight,  ten  hours  more  —  for  on  the  return  journey 
they  must  attend  the  convenience  of  every  other  wheel 
on  the  line,  and  a  stand  of  an  hour  or  so  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  would  be  but  an  incident.  During  that 
short  space  in  which  they  would  breathe  the  wonderful 
Llanyglo  air  they  would  eat  the  meals  they  had  brought 
with  them,  or  else  besiege  the  inns  and  eating-houses  and 
tea-rooms  and  confectioners'-shops.  They  were  the  first 
trippers  —  spinning  operatives,  weavers,  twisters,  warp- 
dressers,  mechanics,  asbestos-hands,  stokers,  clerks, 
shopkeepers,  the  grey  and  unnumbered  multitude  itself. 
Some  would  enjoy  themselves,  some  would  vow  they 
enjoyed  themselves,  and  soine  would  declare  it  "  a  toil  of 
a  pleasure,"  and  would  drag  about  on  hot  and  swollen 
and  weary  feet,  repeating  at  intervals,  *  Niver  again  — 
niver  as  long  as  I  live !  "  And  the  lagging  children's 
arms  would  be  almost  wrenched  off  at  the  shoulders,  and 
some  would  fall  asleep  with  the  sticky  paint  of  the  penny 
toys  dyeing  their  hands,  and  the  platforms  would  begin 
to  fill  up  again  three  hours  before  the  time  of  departure 
of  the  train,  for  the  sake  of  the  chances  of  corner  seats, 
or  indeed  of  seats  at  all,  and  also  because,  on  that  hor- 
rible arduous  day,  the  station  itself  would  seem  almost 
like  a  home.  .  .  . 

Yes,  as  the  Laceys  and  Briggses  had  followed  Edward 
Garden,  and  those  who  could  not  (but  would)  afford  it 
had  followed  the  Briggses  and  Laceys,  and  the  Utopia 
readers  these,  and  the  fortnight  and  ten-days'  people 
these,  and  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people  for  varying 
lengths  of  time  these  again,  so  now  the  unnumbered  rest 
had  come.  ..."  The  first  tripper,  and  I'm  off," 
the  Briggses  and  the  Laceys  had  said ;  and  which  of  us 


242  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

is  not  a  Briggs  or  a  Lacey  in  this  ?  Which  of  us  can 
say  without  misgiving  that  he  would  have  remained  in 
Llanyglo?  Could  we  have  endured  the  sight  of  our 
kind  in  this  bulk  —  or  could  we  have  endured  to  think, 
either,  that  if  they  were  not  there  for  that  dreadful  day 
they  would  still  be  elsewhere  ?  Can  we,  in  the  unshared 
solitude  of  our  hearts,  bear  to  think  of  this  rank  and 
damp  and  steaming  human  undergrowth  at  all  ?  Would 
the  Squire,  seeing  these,  still  have  thought  as  much  of 
his  books  on  Church  Plate  and  Brasses,  still  have  de- 
fended the  integrity  of  something  not  for  all  ?  Would 
Minetta  Garden  have  looked  on  them  with  a  sort  of 
incurious  interest  as  so  many  "  types  "  ?  Or  would  we 
all,  Minetta,  the  Squire,  you,  I,  have  felt  meanly  and 
skulkingly  relieved  when  the  last  tail-light  had  died 
away  in  the  night  again  ? 

There  is.  neither  "  Yes  "  nor  "  ~No  "  to  be  answered. 
I  may  rant  of  brotherhood  and  humanity,  but  you  — 
you  may  remember  that  cart  jolting  without  noise  over 
the  sandhills,  the  blue  and  primrose  petals  of  those  but- 
terflies, the  amethyst-tufts  of  wild  thyme,  the  milkwort, 
the  harebells,  and  then,  of  a  sudden,  that  V  with  the 
sea  beyond.  I,  choosing  to  shoulder  all  the  responsi- 
bility of  a  world  in  the  making  of  which  I  was  not  con- 
sulted, may  moisten  that  human  peat  with  my  tears, 
but  you  —  you,  passionate  for  beauty's  sake,  may  mourn 
a  loveliness  deflowered  and  a  simplicity  destroyed.  It 
is  no  virtue  in  me,  no  harshness  in  you.  We  both  are 
what  we  are  and  do  what  we  can.  Llanyglo  also  was 
what  it  had  become  and  did  what  it  could.  And  Llany- 
glo, after  all,  had  a  solace  that  we  lack.  It  was  an 
inferior  one,  but  better  than  nothing.  Their  beach 
might  be  littered,  their  streets  made  pitiful ;  their  lodg- 
ing-house keepers  might  put  every  loose  jug  or  china  dog 


PAWB  243 

or  ornament  away,  and  replace  them  again  only  after 
these  had  gone;  strange  accents  might  grate  upon  their 
ears,  different  and  disliked  minds  frame  the  thoughts 
those  accents  expressed ;  yet  balm  remained.  There  was 
not  a  tripper,  no,  not  the  poorest  of  them,  but  spent  his 
three,  four,  or  five  shillings  in  the  town. 


D 


PAET  FOUR 


THE    BLIND    BYE 


RUB-DRUB  —  drub-drub-drub  —  drub-drub 


It  was  the  sound  of  heels  on  the  Pier.  From 
one  end  of  it  to  the  other  they  walked,  past  the  recesses 
and  lamp-standards  and  the  bright  kiosks  where  tobacco 
and  confectionery  and  walking-sticks  and  picture-post- 
cards and  souvenirs  were  sold,  and  then  they  turned  and 
walked  back.  After  a  time  the  drub-drubbing  became 
curiously  hypnotising.  At  moments  it  conformed  al- 
most to  a  regular  rhythm;  then  it  broke  up  again  into 
mere  confusion,  out  of  which  another  metrical  beat 
would  rise  for  a  second  or  so  and  then  become  lost  again. 
For  long  spaces  the  ear  would  become  accustomed  and 
cease  to  hear  it,  and  would  take  in  instead  the  lighter 
registers  of  tittering,  soft  laughter,  the  striking  of 
matches  and  an  occasional  scuffle  and  call;  but  the 
groundwork  of  sound  would  break  through  again,  like 
a  muffled  drum  tapped  by  many  performers  at  once, 

monotonous,  reverberating,  dead 

Drub-drub-drub  —  drub-drub  —  drub-drub 

It  was  half -past  eight  of  a  July  night.  Crowded  as 
the  Pier  was,  it  would  become  still  more  so  when  the 
Concert  Hall  just  within  the  turnstiles,  and  the  Pavilion 
at  the  pier-head,  turned  out  their  audiences  again. 
There  would  hardly  be  space  to  move  them.  The 

244 


THE  BLIND  EYE  245 

Promenade  was  a  sweep  of  brilliants ;  Gardd  Street  lay 
unseen  behind  it  under  a  golden  haze;  behind  that 
again  the  lighted  rosette  of  the  Big  Wheel  turned  slowly 
high  in  the  sky ;  and  the  great  hotels  of  the  front  were 
squared  and  mascled  with  window-lights.  All  this 
dance  of  gold  and  silver  made  a1!  already  blue  evening 
intensely  blue,  and  the  Pier  was  so  long  that,  even  with 
quick  walking,  several  minutes  passed  between  your 
losing  the  rattle  of  hand-clapping  outside  the  Concert 
Hall  at  one  end  of  it,  and  your  picking  up  the  strains  of 
the  Pavilion  orchestra  at  the  other. 

Drub-drub-drub  —  drub-drub-drub  —  drub-drub 

There  was  hardly  a  bed  to  be  had  in  Llanyglo. 
Visitors  who  had  rashly  chosen  to  take  their  chance  com- 
monly passed  their  first  night  in  the  waiting-rooms  of 
the  railway  station.  Servant-girls  lay  in  their  clothes 
under  kitchen  tables,  while  their  own  garrets  were  let 
for  half  a  sovereign  a  night.  Dozens  slept  on  sofas, 
chairs,  hearthrugs,  billiard-tables,  on  the  Promenade 
benches,  under  the  tarpaulins  of  wagonettes  and  chars-a- 
bancs,  or  curled  up  in  the  boats  on  the  shore.  They 
Boxed-and-coxed  it  as  they  could,  and  the  police  did  not 
trouble  to  shake  the  slumberers  on  whom  they  turned 
their  bull's-eyes  in  the  nooks  and  arbours  of  the  Eloral 
Valley. 

Drub-drub-drub  —  drub  —  drub 

And  who  were  they  now,  they  whose  heels  wore  down 
the  Pier  timbers  and  made  the  brain  drowsy  with  their 
ceaseless  tramp  ? 

It  was  a  curious  and  a  rather  arresting  change.  To 
all  appearances,  Llanyglo  had  now  got  a  "  better  class 
of  visitor "  than  it  had  had  since  the  Briggses  and 
Laceys  had  shaken  the  dust  of  the  place  from  their  feet. 
Even  in  this  puzzle  of  gold  and  silver  light  and  deep 


246  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

mysterious  blue,  it  could  be  seen  that  there  was  not  much 
Holiday  Club  money  there.  In  another  fortnight  or  so 
those  coffers  would  burst  over  the  town,  drenching  it  with 
gold;  but  in  the  meantime  who  were  these  others,  and 
what  were  they  doing  at  Llanyglo  ? 

Let  us  ask  the  author  of  the  Sixpenny  Guide. 

"When  did  you  arrive?  Only  last  night?  And 
you're  stopping  at  the  '  Majestic '  ?  Well,  you've  some- 
body there  who  can  tell  you  more  about  it  than  I  can  — 
Big  Annie  the  head-chambermaid  on  the  first  floor. 
There  are  a  good  many  things  about  Llanyglo  now  that 
I've  had  to  keep  out  of  my  Guide,  you  see.  But  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  can. 

"  And  I  don't  want  to  give  you  any  false  impression. 
Don't  forget  that  scores  and  hundreds  of  families  come 
here  and  bathe,  and  picnic,  and  dance,  and  go  for  drives, 
and  enjoy  themselves,  and  go  away  again  without  a  no- 
tion that  everybody  here  isn't  exactly  like  themselves. 
And  there's  no  harm  in  the  Wakes  people  either.  The 
worst  you  can  say  of  them  is  that  now  and  then  one 
of  them  gets  violently  or  torpidly  drunk,  as  the  case  may 
be,  and  that  all  of  them  make  a  most  hideous  and  infernal 
noise.  So  don't  think  I'm  talking  disproportionately, 
and  that  this  is  the  only  place  of  its  kind  I  was  ever  in. 

"  But  I  do  mean  this :  that  somehow  or  other  we've 
now  acquired  a  very  peculiar  kind  of  notoriety.  You 
can  deny  it,  disprove  it,  show  that  it  isn't  there  at  all, 
and  —  there  it  remains  all  the  time.  For  one  thing, 
you'll  see  if  you  look  round  that  the  place  is  very  much 
less  northern  in  character  than  it  was,  and  as  it  happens 
that's  very  significant.  For  it  might  conceivably  happen 
that  a  northerner  —  or  a  southerner,  or  anybody  else  — 
might  have  his  reasons  for  avoiding  a  place  that  was  full 


THE  BLIND  EYE  247 

of  other  northerners,  many  of  whom  might  know  him 
(they  have  an  expression  in  the  North  for  the  kind  of 
thing  I  mean ;  they  call  it (  making  mucky  doorstones  '). 
So  you'll  find  lots  and  lots  of  Londoners  here  now,  and 
midlanders,  and  easterners  and  westerners.  They  come 
here,  where  nobody's  ever  seen  them  before  and  will 
never  see  them  again  perhaps,  for  much  the  same  reason 
that  some  Englishmen  are  said  to  go  to  Paris. 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  them  out  more  in  number  than 
they  are.  Spread  out  over  the  whole  country  they'd  only 
be  a  fractional  percentage,  and  you'd  never  notice  them ; 
but  when  they're  brought  together  here  they're  quite 
enough  to  give  the  place  a  character.  They  aren't  the 
open  and  reckless  kind.  Furtiveness —  complete  dis- 
appearance if  possible  —  is  the  whole  point.  They're 
the  men  who  arrange  for  somebody  to  post  their  letters 
home  from  the  place  they're  supposed  to  be  really  at,  and 
the  women  who,  as  the  Bible  says,  eat  and  wipe  their 
lips  and  say  they  haven't  eaten.  They  want  to  dodge, 
not  only  everybody  else,  but  themselves  also,  something 
they're  perhaps  afraid  of  in  themselves,  for  a  fortnight, 
three  weeks,  a  month.  You  see,  they've  persuaded  them- 
selves (and  Llanyglo's  done  too  well  out  of  them  to  un- 
deceive them)  that  things  done  here  somehow  '  don't 
count.'  If  you  want  to  do  something  you'd  never  dare 
to  do  in  a  place  where  you  were  known,  you  come  to 
Llanyglo  to  do  it.  If  you  can  imagine  the  oasis  in  the 
desert  with  exactly  the  contrary  meaning  —  that's  us. 
We're  an  asylum  for  those  who've  lost  their  moral 
memories. 

"  And  it  isn't  that  wedding-rings  are  juggled  off  and 
on,  and  false  names  entered  in  hotel  registers,  nor  any- 
thing of  that  kind.  That  goes  on  more  or  less  every- 
where, and  we  haven't  become  notorious  merely  for  that. 


248  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

And  as  usual,  it's  easier  to  say  what  it  isn't  than  what  it 
it.  It  isn't  the  Trwyn,  for  example,  though  that  does 
twitter  so  with  kisses  from  morning  till  night  that  you'd 
think  it  was  the  grasshoppers.  And  it  isn't  the  almost 
open  displays  you  see  at  certain  hours  wherever  you  go. 
It  isn't  any  one  fact,  not  even  the  worst.  It's  a  faint 
attar  of  some  abandonment,  some  bottomlessness,  that 
you  can't  name.  It  may  be  my  imagination,  but  I've 
fancied  I've  actually  smelt  it  with  my  nostrils,  coming 
into  it  from  a  mile  out  of  the  town.  They  relinquish 
even  appearances.  Most  of  us  have  the  grace  to  cover 
up  our  sins  with  a  decent  and  saving  hypocrisy,  but  these 
know  and  understand  one  another  so  horribly  well. 
They  seem  to  find  a  comfort  that  they're  all  in  the  same 
boat.  As  they  say  themselves,  '  Heaven  for  climate  but 
Hell  for  company/  Give  them  your  name  on  your 
visiting-card  and  they'll  ask  you  by  and  by  what  your 
real  name  is.  Until  then,  neither  your  name  nor  any- 
thing else  about  you  is  their  business.  They  haven't  any 
business.  For  a  week,  or  a  fortnight,  or  a  month, 
they've  turned  their  backs  on  that  tremendous  common 
business  that  keeps  the  world  going.  It's  the  blind  eye, 
and  Llanyglo  provides  the  blinkers.  .  .  . 

"  But  go  and  talk  to  Big  Annie.  She's  really  a 
rather  remarkable  woman.  At  stated  hours  she  sits 
on  point  duty  on  the  landing  of  her  floor  of  eighty  bed- 
rooms, just  where  everybody's  got  to  pass  her,  and  if 
you  look  like  making  —  er  —  a  mistake  (and  your 
hotel's  quite  an  easy  place  to  get  lost  in)  she  sets  you 
right  without  a  quiver  of  her  face.  Yes,  she's  rather 
an  alarming  person.  There's  a  swiftness  about  her  way 
of  summing  up  people  from  a  single  glance  at  their 
faces.  Oh,  you  don't  take  Annie  in  with  a  wedding- 
ring  and  a  '  darling '  or  so  —  especially  when  the  lady 


THE  BLIND  EYE  249 

asks  the  darling  whether  he  takes  sugar  in  his  early 
morning  cup  of  tea.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  you  go  and  see  Annie." 

Drub-drub  —  drub-drub-drub 

After  a  time  that  stupor  of  the  ear  became  a  stupor 
of  the  eye  also.  Even  when  a  match  glowed  before  a 
face  for  a  moment,  the  stage-like  lighting  gave  you  no 
physiognomical  information.  The  lamps  shone  on  the 
crowns  of  the  passing  hats,  but  the  faces  beneath  them 
were  lost ;  all  cats  were  grey.  Any  one  of  them  might 
have  been  a  giggling  flapper  with  her  eyes  still  sealed  to 
Life,  or  one  of  those  others  mentioned  by  the  too-curious 
author  of  the  Guide,  who  would  be  dead  to  sight  and 
thought  for  a  space  that  didn't  count.  Light  frocks 
and  darker  hues,  bare  heads  and  plaits  and  shawls  and 
hooded  dominoes,  shop-girl  and  high-school  girl,  caps 
and  straws  and  panamas,  pipes  and  cigarettes,  youths 
thoughtless  and  youths  predatory  —  you  paid  your 
threepence  at  the  turnstiles  and  watched  them  pass  and 
repass.  Drub-drub-drub.  .  .  .  And  if  you  sat  long 
enough,  changes  began  to  be  perceptible.  The  flappers 
who  were  evidently  high-school  girls  began  to  be  fewer, 
and  others  took  their  places  —  for  most  of  the  shops  of 
Llanyglo  closed  at  nine  or  half -past,  and  the  released 
waitresses  and  assistants  who  had  been  on  their  feet  all 
day  were  still  not  too  weary  to  add  to  the  drub-drubbing. 
It  was  difficult  to  say  in  what  particular  these  were  dis- 
tinguishable. It  was  not  their  dress  —  the  universal 
attainment  of  a  certain  standard  of  dressing  is  one  of 
our  modern  miracles.  You  would  not  have  had  it  from 
their  own  lips  —  you  would  have  been  tactless  in  the 
extreme  not  to  have  assumed  that  they  also  were  visitors 
(as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  would  calmly  make  appoint- 


250  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

ments  for  four  o'clock  of  the  next  day,  knowing  perfectly 
well  that  at  that  hour  they  would  be  giving  change  in  a 
cash-desk  or  hurrying  hither  and  thither  with  piles  of 
bread  and  butter  and  trays  awash  with  spilt  tea).  Per- 
haps it  was  the  young  men  they  greeted  and  their  way  of 
greeting  them.  They  didn't  come  out  for  these  last 
hours  of  the  day  to  gossip  with  those  to  whom  they  had 
called  "  Sign !  "  all  the  afternoon,  their  own  foremen, 
companions,  or  the  tradesmen  of  the  shop  opposite. 

Drub-drub  —  drub-drub 

There  passed  through  the  Season  Ticket  turnstile 
two  young  men.  Both  wore  dark  suits  and  conven- 
tional collars  and  ties  (as  if  they,  at  any  rate,  had  no 
need  to  don  their  coloured  jackets  and  flannel  trousers 
while  they  could),  and  the  attendant  at  the  turnstile 
had  touched  his  cap  as  they  had  passed.  One  of  them, 
the  taller  of  the  two,  wore  his  straw  hat  halo-wise  at 
the  back  of  his  head,  filled  his  pipe  as  he  walked,  and 
looked  cheerfully  and  unobservingly  about  him;  the 
other's  straw  was  well  down,  and  the  eyes  beneath  its 
brim  sought  somebody  or  something,  and  would  appar- 
ently be  satisfied  with  nothing  less.  The  first  was  Percy 
Briggs,  and  everybody  in  Llanyglo  knew  Percy 
Briggs  —  Percy  Briggs,  who  strolled  casually  into  Hotel 
Cosies  towards  midday,  nodded  to  the  more  favoured 
ones,  said  to  the  barmaid  "  So  and  So  been  in  yet  ? " 
and,  getting  a  bright  "  No,  Mr.  Briggs,  not  yet  "  for  an 
answer,  lounged  out  again  without  having  had  a  drink 
—  a  sufficient  gage  of  privilege  and  familiarity  with  the 
place.  The  other  was  John  Willie  Garden,  who  knew 
Llanyglo,  knew  which  faces  had  been  there  last  year  and 
the  year  before,  and  was  now  looking  for  a  face  he  had 
seen  yesterday  evening  for  one  moment  only  and  had 
then  lost  again. 


THE  BLIND  EYE  251 

The  Pier  was  an  old,  old  story  to  him  now.  Between 
seasons,  on  winter  nights,  the  drab-drub  of  a  few  months 
before  seemed  sometimes  still  faintly  to  echo  in  his  ears 
—  this  when  the  grey  skies  came,  and  in  the  hotels  a 
few  rooms  only  were  kept  open  for  unprofitable  com- 
mercial travellers,  and  the  Promenade  was  empty,  and 
the  Pleasure  Packet  Service  laid  up,  and  a  walk  to  the 
end  of  the  Pier  and  back  seemed  a  long  way  to  feet  that 
had  covered  the  distance  twenty  times  on  a  summer's 
evening,  and  the  colourless  sea  seemed  to  give  to  the 
red  and  white  blink  of  the  Trwyn  Light  a  sudden  and 
nearer  significance.  He  knew  every  hour  of  Llanyglo's 
day  —  the  hours  of  departure  of  the  pleasure-boats  to 
Ehyl  and  Llandudno  and  round  Anglesey,  the  bathing- 
hours  in  the  morning,  the  high-school  parade  at  mid- 
day, the  second  bathing  relay  in  the  afternoon,  the  tea- 
hour,  the  walk  of  parents  and  children  to  see  the  boats 
come  in  again  in  the  early  evening,  and  then,  as  the 
evening  wore  on,  the  successive  appearances  and  drop- 
pings out  of  this  kind  or  that,  the  emptying  of  the  Pavil- 
ions, the  inflow  of  the  shop-girls  and  waitresses,  the 
rush  for  the  public-houses  half  an  hour  before  the  Pier 
lights  went  out,  the  thinning  numbers  who  beat  the  Pro- 
menade, the  parties  of  the  Alsatians  who  sat  up  in  one 
another's  hotels  long  after  every  public  drinking-place 
had  been  closed.  He  had  nothing  further  to  learn 
about  it  all,  and  it  bored  him.  Only  his  search  for 
that  girl  had  brought  him  on  the  Pier  to-night. 

He  had  been  almost  certain  he  knew  her,  but  where 
he  had  seen  her  face  before  he  could  not  for  the  life  of 
him  remember.  Perhaps  he  did  not  know  her  after  all ; 
indeed,  when  he  came  to  think  of  it,  no  memory  of  a 
voice  seemed  to  go  with  the  face,  so  that  the  probability 
was  that  if  he  had  seen  her  before  he  had  never  spoken 


252  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

to  her.  She  had  been  standing,  in  that  blue  twilight, 
clear  of  the  throng,  under  the  single  crimson  pier-head 
light,  looking  out  over  the  water  that  seemed  still  to 
reflect  a  light  that  had  faded  from  the  sky,  and  for  a 
moment  John  Willie  had  wondered  what  she  was  looking 
at.  The  next  moment  he  had  seen  —  and  so,  confound 
it,  had  twenty  others.  A  yellow  spot,  like  a  riding- 
light,  had  risen  out  of  the  sea ;  almost  as  quickly  as  the 
second-hand  of  a  watch  moves,  it  had  become  a  tip ;  and 
then  the  lookers-in  at  the  glass  sides  of  the  Pavilion 
had  run  to  see  the  rising  of  the  bloated,  refraction-mag- 
nified, burning  yellow  horn.  In  that  little  running  of 
people  he  had  lost  her.  Twice,  thrice  he  had  walked 
the  whole  length  of  the  Pier,  but  without  seeing  her 
again.  All  of  her  that  he  could  now  remember  was  the 
carriage  of  her  head  and  her  plain  black  dress,  and  he 
knew  that  dress,  in  this  extraordinary  raising  of  the 
standard  of  dressing  which  implies  the  possession  by 
almost  everybody  of  two  dresses  at  least,  was  an  uncer- 
tain guide. 

Another  rattle  of  hand-clapping  broke  out  as  Percy 
Briggs  and  John  Willie  passed  the  turnstiles.  "  Any 
good  looking  in  there  ? "  Percy  asked,  nodding  towards 
the  Concert  Hall,  but  John  Willie  made  no  reply.  He 
was  as  cross  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head.  Twice  already 
he  had  rounded  on  Percy,  who  had  proposed  drinks  at 
this  place  or  that,  and  had  snapped  "  You  go  if  you 
want  —  I'm  not  keeping  you ;  "  but  Percy  had  replied 
good-naturedly,  "  Oh,  all  right,  keep  your  hair  on." 

The  sounds  of  two  more  pairs  of  heels  were  added  to 
the  drub-drubbing  on  the  planks  of  the  Pier. 

It  seemed  idle  to  seek,  but  John  Willie  stood  looking 
in  at  the  glass  sides  of  the  Pavilion  at  the  pier-head, 
searching  the  bright  and  crowded  interior.  His  mind 


THE  BLIND  EYE  253 

was  as  obstinately  set  as  that  of  a  mule.  It  seemed 
to  him  idiotic  that  all  those  rows  and  rows  of  people 
should  clap  the  inanities  of  the  young  man  in  knee- 
breeched  evening-dress  who  strutted  and  made  painted 
eyes  over  the  top  of  a  flattened  opera-hat,  or  encore  Miss 
Sal  Volatile,  all  spidery  black  silk  stockings  below  and 
cocksfeather  boa  and  enormous  black  halfmoon  hat 
above.  John  Willie  turned  away  to  the  low-burning 
crimson  pier-light.  He  stood  there  for  some  moments, 
and  then  began  to  stride  back  the  length  of  the  Pier 
again. 

"  Chucking  it  ? "  said  Percy,  half  sympathetic,  half 
"  getting  at "  John  Willie. 

"  Come  on  to  the  Kursaal,"  John  Willie  grunted. 

The  Kursaal  lay  behind  the  two  frontages  of  Gardd 
and  Pontnewydd  Streets,  and  it  could  be  reached  from 
either  thoroughfare.  From  Gardd  Street,  up  another 
short  street,  the  great  lighted  semicircle  of  what  was 
then  its  Main  Entrance  could  be  seen ;  and  if  the  minor 
entrance  from  Pontnewydd  Street  was  at  that  time  less 
resplendent,  that  was  because  the  Kerrs'  Hafod  stood  in 
the  way  of  opening  it  up.  With  its  grounds  and  the- 
atre and  vast  dancing-hall,  the  Kursaal  covered  getting 
on  for  an  eighth  of  a  square  mile ;  but  a  third  or  more 
of  that  was  still  in  progress  of  being  laid  out  and  planted 
—  once  more  by  Philip  Lacey. 

Crossing  the  Promenade  to  the  less  crowded  pave- 
ment beyond,  John  Willie  and  Percy  strode  the  half- 
mile  to  the  Kursaal.  There  was  a  queue  about  the 
turnstiles,  but  John  Willie  made  a  sign  to  an  attendant, 
who  flung  up  the  Exit  Only  barrier.  They  passed  un- 
der trees  with  many-coloured  electric  lights  among  the 
branches,  and  the  slowly  turning  Big  Wheel,  which  made 
a  quarter-arch  of  lights  over  the  tower  of  the  Central 


254  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Hall,  dipped  behind  it  again  as  they  reached  the  steps 
that  led  to  the  vestibule. 

For  size  alone,  apart  from  any  other  consideration, 
the  dancing-hall  of  the  Llanyglo  Kursaal  is  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  North.  It  cost  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  to  build,  and  since  it  can  dance  a  thousand 
couples,  to  seek  anybody  there  without  going  up  into 
the  balconies  is  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  bottle 
of  hay.  The  band  was  not  playing  at  the  moment  when 
Percy  and  John  Willie  entered;  but  before  they  had 
reached  the  top  of  an  empty  half-lighted  series  of  stair- 
cases the  distant  strains  of  a  Barn  Dance  had  broken 
out.  Then,  with  the  pushing  at  a  door,  it  burst  loudly 
upon  them.  John  Willie  strode  down  the  shallow  gal- 
lery steps,  made  for  a  front  seat  whence  he  could  see 
the  whole  length  of  the  vast  oblong  below,  spread  out  his 
elbows  and  set  his  chin  on  his  wrists,  and,  once  more 
muttering  "  You  go  and  get  your  drink  if  you  want," 
began  to  search  the  hall  with  gloomy  blue  eyes,  very 
much  as  a  boy  flashes  a  bit  of  looking-glass  hither  and 
thither  in  the  sun. 

Now  when  the  Wakes  people  come  to  Llanyglo, 
and  the  pleasant  family  parties  yield  place  a  little, 
and  drive  in  the  mountains  more  frequently,  and  leave 
the  Pier  and  Promenade  a  little  earlier,  and  gather 
more  often  at  one  another's  hotels  —  even  then  that 
dancing-hall  is  so  vast  that  twenty  different  elements 
can  be  accommodated  there  without  mixing  or  encroach- 
ment. But  that  series  of  precipitations  had  not  yet 
taken  place.  That  night  all  was  homogeneous.  Per- 
haps here  and  there  other  contacts  had  sparsely 
"  crossed,"  as  it  were,  that  fresh  blooming,  as  the  white 
hawthorn  takes  on  faintly  the  hue  of  the  pink  in  the 
spring,  but  that  was  probably  rare.  John  Willie,  had 


THE  BLIND  EYE  255 

lie  had  eyes  for  it,  looked  down  upon  a  wonderful  sight. 
The  hall  was  a  creamy  gold,  with  bow  after  bow  along 
its  balcony  tiers ;  without  its  other  innumerable  clusters 
of  lights,  the  eight  arc-lamps  in  its  high  roof  would  have 
lighted  it  no  better  than  a  railway  station  is  lighted; 
and  the  mirrors  on  the  walls  were  hardly  more  polished 
than  its  satiny  floor.  A  fully  appointed  stage  half-way 
down  one  of  the  sides  held  an  orchestra  of  thirty  per- 
formers; walking  across  that  wonderfully  swung  floor 
you  felt  something  almost  alive  under  your  feet;  and 
four  thousand  feet  moved  upon  it  that  night. 

It  was  beautiful.  The  band  was  playing,  slowly,  as 
is  the  dancing-fashion  of  the  North,  that  Barn  Dance; 
and  almost  every  girl  was  in  white.  The  whites  were 
the  whites  of  flowers  —  the  greenish  white  of  guelder- 
roses,  the  yellow  white  of  elder  or  of  meadow-sweet,  the 
pinkish  white  of  the  faintest  dog-rose,  the  dead  white 
of  narcissi,  but  little  that  was  not  white.  And  because 
of  all  that  soft  whiteness,  faces  caught  by  the  sun  were 
browner,  and  hair  that  the  wind  had  blown  through  all 
day  glossier,  and  eyes  brighter,  and  perhaps  blushes 
quicker  and  more  readily  seen.  And  to  the  whole 
bright  spectacle  was  added  the  impressiveness  of  un- 
faltering rhythm  and  simultaneousness  of  movement. 
The  Colour  on  the  Horse  Guards'  Parade  is  not  hon- 
oured with  greater  precision  of  physical  movement  than 
these  disciplined  feet,  these  turning  bodies ;  the  pulsing 
floor  itself  answered  to  the  delicate  dip  of  the  conductor's 
stick.  For  two  bars  .  .  .  but  look  at  them  as  they 
pour  towards  you  down  the  left  side  of  the  room. 
Every  face  is  towards  you,  forty  abreast,  and  forty  fol- 
lowing those,  and  more  forties,  columns  and  squadrons 
of  them,  coming  forward  as  grain  comes  down  a  chan- 
nel, as  graded  fruit  pours  down  a  shoot.  You  do  not 


256  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

see  where  they  come  from  —  their  turn  is  far  away 
tinder  the  pillars  there;  you  do  not  see  where  they  go 
to  —  they  pass  away  out  of  sight  again  beneath  you. 
They  do  not  seem  the  same  over  and  over  again,  but  all 
the  youths  and  maidens  of  the  world,  coming  on  and 
on,  and  new,  always  new.  .  .  .  Then  you  look  to  the 
right,  and  instantly  your  eyes  are  sensible  of  a  darker 
ensemble.  That  is  because  you  see,  not  faces  now,  but 
the  backs  of  heads;  not  gaily  striped  shirts  and  bright 
ties,  but  plain  shoulders  only.  And  they  pass  away  as 
they  came,  all  the  youths  and  maidens  of  the  world 
with  their  backs  to  you.  Not  one  turns  for  a  look  at 
you,  not  one  nods  you  farewell.  It  is  like  your  own 
youth  leaving  you.  .  .  .  And  then  magically  all  alters. 
Two  more  bars  and,  as  if  some  strange  and  all-potent 
and  instantaneously  acting  element  had  been  dropped 
into  the  setting  and  returning  human  fluid,  of  a  sudden 
it  all  breaks  up.  It  effervesces.  Every  couple  is  seen 
to  be  waltzing.  Two  by  two  they  turn,  and  your  youth 
is  no  longer  coming  to  you  nor  departing  from  you,  but 
stops  and  plays.  It  stops  and  plays  —  for  two  bars  — 
and  lo,  the  other  again.  Once  more  they  troop  towards 
you  with  their  faces  seen,  once  more  troop  away  with 
faces  averted.  The  illusion  becomes  a  spell.  Coming, 
going,  all  different,  all  the  same,  parallel  legions  with 
faces  to  the  future  and  faces  to  the  grave  • —  it  is  a  little 
like  Llanyglo  itself.  Suddenly  you  find  yourself  drawn 
a  little  closer  to  John  Willie  Garden.  You  do  not  want 
to  look  down  from  a  balcony  on  all  the  young  manhood 
and  young  womanhood  of  the  world.  One,  one  only,  will 
suffice  you,  and  with  her  you  will  come  brightly  down, 
all  eyes  and  rosiness  and  laughter,  and  with  her  go  in  a 
soberer  livery  away  again.  .  .  .  But  luckier  you  than 
John  Willie  if  you  find  that  one.  His  eyes,  practised 


THE  BLIND  EYE  257 

as  they  were  in  scanning  the  Kursaal  throng,  did  not  see 
her.  The  coda  came;  the  vast  oblong  well  lighted  up 
for  a  moment  as  a  poplar  lights  up  when  the  wind  blows 
upon  it  —  it  was  the  slightly  wider  swing  of  skirts  seen 
from  above  as  the  dance  quickened  to  its  finale;  and 
then,  as  if  something  else  potent  and  inimical  had  been 
dropped  into  the  solution,  there  was  a  break  for  the  sides, 
and  the  shining  floor  was  seen  again. 

"  Damn !  "  muttered  John  Willie  Garden. 

Percy,  relishing  the  spectacle  of  John  Willie  on  the 
hunt,  was  in  no  hurry.  "  The  arbours  ?  "  he  suggested 
laconically  as  John  Willie  rose ;  but  again  John  Willie 
did  not  reply.  For  one  thing,  it  was  a  little  difficult  to 
see  into  those  dark  nooks  among  Philip  Lacey's  barrows 
and  planks  and  new  larches  and  heaps  of  upturned 
earth;  for  another,  he  had  an  assurance  that  she  he 
sought  would  not  be  there. 

"  Come  on,"  he  grunted. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Percy,  with  an  exaggerated  shake  of 
himself.  "Has  the  moment  at  last  arrived  when  we 
quaff?" 

But  already  John  Willie  had  stridden  on  ahead. 

They  took  a  known  short  cut  through  dark  and  ob- 
structed windings,  and  presently  reached  the  side-door 
of  the  adjoining  hotel.  It  had  certain  rooms  where 
ladies  unaccompanied  might  get  a  drink,  but  into  these 
they  barely  glanced.  Percy  grinned.  Should  John 
Willie  find  the  object  of  his  search  in  one  of  the  other 
rooms,  then  there  was  reasonable  hope  of  a  row.  He 
had  never  before  seen  John  Willie  so  persistently  asking 
for  trouble. 

The  door  at  which  they  paused  showed  a  room 
crowded,  bright,  and  full  of  a  lawn  of  tobacco-smoke. 
It  was  not  a  large  room,  but  it  must  have  held  twenty 


258  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

men  and  as  many  women,  and  you  could  have  seen  their 
like  on  any  summer  Sunday  at  Tagg's  Island,  or  any 
day  in  Regent  Street,  or  on  Brighton  Front.  They  sat 
in  chairs  of  saddlebag  or  leather,  and  the  fingers  of  the 
men  were  poised  over  the  large  cigar-boxes  the  waiters 
held  before  them,  or  else  made  little  circular  gestures 
about  the  circumference  of  the  little  round  tables,  as 
much  as  to  say  "  Same  again  "  or  "  Mine."  Little  but 
champagne,  liqueurs,  or  brandies-and-soda  seemed  to  be 
to  their  taste,  and  John  Pritchard  might  indeed  have 
thought  them  "  very  ritss  whatever  " ;  gold  seemed  to 
come  from  them  at  a  touch,  notes  at  little  more.  Just 
within  the  door  a  very  brown  man  sat  with  a  plump 
little  lady  about  whose  short  fingers  gems  seemed  to 
have  candied,  as  sugar  candies  about  a  string ;  and  next 
to  them  another  man  admired  as  much  of  his  compan- 
ion's shoes  as  could  be  seen  for  the  champagne  cooler 
on  the  floor.  There  was  not  much  noise.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  whispering  about  horses. 

A  ring  was  widened  for  the  newcomers  about  one  of 
the  larger  tables  — "  Arthur !  "  Percy  called  as  he  passed 
one  of  the  waiters.  "  Bag  o'  beer,  and  Mr.  P.  Briggs's 
compliments  to  Miss  Price  and  will  she  please  come  at 
once."  They  settled  down. 

This  was  Percy's  present  humour  —  to  drink  pints 
of  beer  from  a  silver  tankard  that  resembled  a  tun 
among  the  gem-like  liqueur-glasses,  and  to  make  love  to 
Miss  Price,  the  fat  and  creasy  and  unapproachable  hotel- 
manageress.  Perhaps  he  intended  to  convey  that  few 
other  new  sensations  remained  to  him  at  the  end  of  his 
three-and-twenty  hard-lived  years.  Sometimes  John 
Willie  laughed  at  this  posture  of  his  friend's,  but  to- 
night he  thought  it  merely  stupid  and  idiotic.  He  had 
come  here  because  he  had  thought  he  might  as  well  be 


THE  BLIND  EYE  259 

having  a  drink  as  fruitlessly  searching ;  now  he  thought 
he  might  as  well  be  searching  as  having  a  drink  he  didn't 
want.  Percy  was  ordering  the  drinks  now  — "  Ver- 
mouth, Val?  Cissie,  your's  is  avocat,  I  know.  Now, 
Johannes  Guglielmus,  what  will  you  imbibe  ?  "  Pres- 
ently John  Willie  sat  glowering  at  a  whiskey-and-soda. 
The  girl  on  his  left,  whom  Percy  had  addressed  as  Cissie, 
made  an  arch  attempt  to  talk  to  him,  and  then  gave  up 
the  laborious  task  and  turned  her  back.  Miss  Price,  the 
manageress,  appeared,  and  Percy  began  his  stupid  and 
facetious  love-making.  John  Willie  wondered  whether 
he  had  searched  the  Dancing-Hail  thoroughly  after 
all. 

The  table  grew  noisy,  and  there  were  appreciative 
grins  from  other  tables ;  Percy  was  trying  to  draw  that 
disgustingly  fat  manageress  on  to  his  knee.  And,  with 
the  pace  thus  set  by  Percy,  the  whole  room  woke  up. 
The  waiters  began  to  move  about  more  quickly  and  to 
call  for  assistance,  and  there  was  applause  as  somebody 
opened  the  lid  of  the  piano.  .  .  . 

John  Willie  sat  before  his  untouched  whiskey-and- 
soda.  He  was  once  more  wondering  whether  it  would 
be  worth  while  to  return  to  the  Dancing-Hall,  or  whether 
she  might  not  by  this  time  be  on  the  Pier.  And  again, 
and  ever  again,  he  wondered  when  and  where  he  had 
seen  her  before.  .  .  . 

Again  Percy's  silly  joyous  voice  broke  in.  He  was 
expostulating  with  Miss  Price. 

"  Look,  Cissie's  sitting  on  Val's " 

"  Let  be,  Mr.  Briggs  —  indeed  I  will  not  be  pulled 
about  like  that ! " 

"  Then  sit  on  Mr.  Garden's  —  cheer  him  up  —  he's 
looking  for  Gertie,  the  Double-Blank  from  Blackburn, 
and  can't  find  her " 


260  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"  There,  now,  Mr.  Briggs !  • —  Now  I  shall  have  to  go 
and  get  a  needle  and  thread ! " 

Somebody  interposed. — "  Here,  chuck  it,  Percy ; 
somebody  might  come  in.  ...  Hallo,  John  Willie,  you 
off?" 

For  John  Willie  had  pushed  back  his  chair.  He 
reached  for  his  hat.  "  Leave  us  a  lock  of  your  hair  for 
my  mourning-brooch,"  Percy's  muffled  voice  came  after 
him,  but  he  was  off. 

Perhaps  she  would  be  at  the  Wheel.  .  .  . 

But  she  was  not  at  that  immense  tyre  slung  with 
upholstered  coaches,  nor  yet  to  be  seen  at  the  side- 
shows round  about.  He  left  the  Kursaal,  and  joined 
the  dense  throng  that  made  a  double  stream  under  the 
Promenade  lamps.  He  told  himself  he  was  a  fool. 
She  might  have  left  Llanyglo  within  a  few  hours  of  his 
having  seen  her  —  might  be  back  in  any  of  the  towns  of 
England  or  Scotland  or  Wales  by  this  time.  But  he 
did  not  cease  to  seek.  He  reached  the  Pier  again. 
Drub-drub-drub-drub-drub-drub-drub.  It  was  now  solid 
with  flesh,  and  indeed  he  had  not  walked  half  its  length 
when  the  closing-bell  clanged.  The  glow  over  the  pier- 
head Pavilion  went  suddenly  out,  and  so,  a  few  moments 
later,  did  a  hundred  yards  of  the  lamps  on  either  side. 
He  heard  the  usual  cries  of  mock-terror.  It  was  no 
good  going  up  there  now.  .  .  . 

Nor  would  she  be  in  the  Floral  Valley.  In  fact,  he 
had  better  give  it  up.  He  had  better  clear  out  of  Llany- 
glo for  a  bit.  He  was  sick  of  this  dusty  dance  of 
pleasure,  and  the  Wakes  crowds  would  be  here  in  a  few 
days.  .  .  .  He  would  go  and  fish  up  Delyn.  The  Water 
Scheme  hadn't  spoiled  the  lake;  they  had  only  built  a 
quite  small  dam  with  locks  at  one  end,  and  the  grid  of 
service-reservoirs  was  lower  down.  Sharpe  had  left  the 


THE  BLIND  EYE  261 

hut.  He  would  go  there  for  a  few  days  and  have  his 
bread  and  mutton  and  cheese  sent  up  from  the  inn  in  the 
valley  below.  He  would  tell  Minetta  to  get  somebody 
to  stay  with  her,  and  would  go  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 

He  was  passing  the  closed  fancy-shop  at  the  corner 
of  Gardd  Street  when  he  came  to  this  resolution;  and 
suddenly  he  stopped  dead.  Minetta!  .  .  .  What  was 
it  that  the  thought  of  his  sister,  coming  at  this  moment, 
reminded  him  of  ?  It  was  odd,  but  it  had  certainly  re- 
minded him  of  something  that  had  seemed  to  come  near 
him  only  to  escape  him  again  immediately.  Minetta! 
.  .  .  He  saw  Minetta  daily.  There  was  nothing  new 
about  Minetta.  She  looked  after  the  house,  and  if  he 
wasn't  going  to  be  in  for  meals  he  mentioned  the  fact, 
or  sometimes  didn't,  and  beyond  that,  to  tell  the  truth, 
he  didn't  very  often  think  of  Minetta.  He  didn't  sup- 
pose she  would  ever  marry  —  wasn't  that  kind.  He 
remembered  that  years  ago  that  genial  idiot  Percy 
Briggs  had  fancied  himself  "  sweet "  on  her,  but  that 
sketching  of  hers 

Ah! 

John  Willie,  who  had  been  still  standing  at  the  corner, 
moved  slowly  forward  again.  He  had  got  it. 

He  knew  he'd  been  right!  It  was  a  little  boast  of 
his  that  he  remembered  faces  rather  well,  and  the  thing 
that  had  perplexed  him  for  two  days  was  now  clear. 
In  a  flash  he  saw  in  his  mind  the  Llanyglo  of  the  days 
of  the  Briggses  and  Laceys.  He  saw  a  bright  diminu- 
tive picture  of  deck-chairs  and  bathing-tents  on  the 
shore,  and  June  Lacey  and  Wiggie  having  their  fortunes 
told.  And  he  saw  a  gipsy  child,  with  a  head  held  as  if 
it  had  borne  an  invisible  pitcher,  and  then  a  foot  cut 
by  a  piece  of  glass,  and  himself  and  Percy  packed  off 
home  in  disgrace,  and  Percy's  mother  washing  the 


262  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

gashed  foot  with  water  from  a  picnic-basket  and  tying  it 
up  with  a  handkerchief.  Then  Minetta  had  come  up, 
and  had  said  that  she  was  going  to  make  a  sketch  of  the 
child.  .  .  . 

Ah!  It  was  she  who  had  stood  under  the  red  pier- 
light,  watching  that  cadmium  horn  of  the  moon  that 
lifted  itself  out  of  the  sea ! 


II 

JUNE 

AS  it  happened,  John  Willie  did  not  go  off  fishing 
on  the  morrow.  He  expected  that  Minetta  would 
be  in  bed  when  he  got  home,  but  as  he  passed  up  the  path 
he  saw  a  light  burning  high  in  the  front  of  the  house. 
It  was  in  the  room  beneath  that  date-stone  under  which 
he  had  once  put  a  sixpence,  and  that  room,  because  of 
its  high  and  uninterrupted  view  of  the  sea,  was  one  of 
the  guest-chambers.  He  wondered  who  had  come. 

His  supper  was  laid  in  the  dining-room,  but  he  did 
not  want  it,  and  so  passed  straight  upstairs.  As  he 
turned  along  the  landing  to  his  own  room  he  heard  a 
door  opened  on  the  floor  above,  and  his  sister  called  "  Is 
that  you?"  He  answered,  entered  his  bedroom,  and 
began  to  undress. 

But  he  had  scarcely  got  his  boots  unlaced  when 
there  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  Minetta  entered. 
Her  dark  hair  was  in  plaits,  she  wore  a  wrap  over  her 
nightdress,  and  she  carried  on  her  hip  a  tray  with  two 
claret-stained  glasses  and  a  salver  with  a  cut  cake. 
Evidently  there  had  been  a  girls'  bedroom  orgie. 

"  Who's  come  ? "  John  Willie  asked,  throwing  aside 
his  second  boot. 

"  June  Lacey.  You  knew  she  was  coming,"  Minetta 
answered  accusingly. 

"  No,  I  didn't  —  first  I've  heard  of  it." 

"  Tou  never  hear  anything  when  you're  reading  a 

263 


264  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

newspaper.  I  told  you  at  breakfast  this  morning,  and 
that  she  was  going  to  wire  the  time  of  the  train.  And 
you  were  out,  and  I  had  to  leave  everything  and  go  and 
meet  her  myself." 

"  Sorry,"  John  Willie  grunted.  He  remembered 
now.  "  I  mean,  I  didn't  gather  it  was  to-day." 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  manage  to  spare  her  an  hour 
or  two  now  that  she's  here,"  Minetta  said  a  little 
crossly.  "  I  did  tell  her  to  come  just  whenever  she 
wished,  and  she  didn't  know  the  Wakes  were  coming 
on." 

"  All  right,"  John  Willie  yawned.  "  I  was  going 
fishing,  that's  all ;  but  I  won't  if  you  don't  want.  How 
long's  she  staying  ?  " 

"  At  least  a  fortnight.  So  don't  say  I  haven't  told 
you  that.  And  do  try  to  be  in  just  occasionally.  Have 
you  had  supper  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  want  any,  thanks.  Sorry  I  forgot,  Min. 
Say  good  night  to  June  for  me." 

Five  minutes  later  he  had  turned  out  the  gas  and 
tumbled  into  bed. 

Except  that  she  postponed  his  escape  from  ennui  for 
a  day  or  two,  June's  arrival  was  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence to  him.  He  had  known  her  for  so  long  that  he 
regarded  her  almost  as  if  she  had  been  a  split-off  por- 
tion of  Minetta  herself,  that  happened  to  possess  its 
own  apparatus  of  speech  and  locomotion.  He  could 
no  more  have  said  whether  she  was  pretty  than  he 
could  have  said  whether  Minetta  was  pretty.  It  was 
no  trouble  to  talk  to  June.  As  much  talk  as  was  neces- 
sary came  of  itself.  He  had  only  to  say  "  You  remem- 
ber so-and-so "  or  "  Like  that  time  when " 

and  conversation  sustained  itself  out  of  a  hundred 
trifles  desultorily  familiar  to  both  of  them.  That,  at 


JUNE  265 

any  rate,  was  a  comfort.  With  anybody  new  he  would 
have  had  to  take  a  certain  amount  of  trouble.  With 
June  it  didn't  matter. 

So,  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  he  did  not  ac- 
tually read  the  newspaper  as  he  ate,  but  he  threw  out 
a  remark  from  time  to  time  as  it  were  over  the  edge  of 
an  imaginary  newspaper,  and  then  asked  June  what  she 
would  like  to  do  that  morning.  When  she  replied  that 
she  wanted  him  to  do  just  whatever  he  had  intended 
to  do,  he  even  hoisted  himself  to  the  level  of  a  little 
ceremoniousness,  and  told  her  that  he  had  no  plans  at 
all  save  to  amuse  her  —  what  about  a  bathe,  the  morn- 
ing Concert  in  the  Pavilion,  a  drive  in  the  afternoon, 
and  so  on?  By  keeping  to  this  beaten  track  of  en- 
joyment, he  could,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  be  enter- 
taining June  and  keeping  an  eye  open  for  that  gipsy 
girl  who  haunted  his  imagination. 

"A  bathe?"  said  June.  .  .  .  "Oh,  of  course! 
How  stupid  of  me!  I'd  forgotten  there  was  mixed 
bathing  here  now.  What  a  change !  .  .  .  Wasn't  there 
a  frightful  row  about  it  ? " 

There  had  been  a  row,  but  it  had  been  short  and 
sharp.  Briefly,  Blackpool  and  Douglas  and  Llandudno 
had  settled  the  matter  for  them,  and,  after  a  protest 
for  conscience's  sake  —  and  also  a  little  more  well- 
judged  absenteeism  —  even  Howell  Gruffydd,  now 
Chairman  of  the  Council,  and  John  Pritchard,  a  Coun- 
cillor in  his  second  year,  had  yielded.  A  portion  of  the 
shore  had  been  set  apart  for  this  "  playing  with  fire," 
but  within  a  year  even  this  had  become  a  dead  letter. 
The  only  thing  that  now  distinguished  this  portion  of 
the  beach  from  the  rest  was  a  certain  heightened  jocund- 
ity in  the  advertisements  on  the  sides  of  the  bathing- 
machines  at  that  spot.  The  virtues  of  Pills  and  Laxa- 


206  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

tives  were  a  little  more  loudly  announced  there,  and 
this  heartiness  and  lack  of  false  shame  culminated  in 
a  long  hoarding  that  was  erected  on  one  of  the  groynes, 
and  bore  on  one  side  the  legend  "THE  NAKED 
TRUTH  "  (which  was  that  Somebody's  Remedies  were 
the  Best),  and  on  the  other  the  words  "TO  THE 
PURE  "  (who  were  warned  against  Fraudulent  Imi- 
tations). For  the  rest  folk  now  bathed  where  they 
would. 

So,  idly,  John  Willie  told  June  of  the  town's  strug- 
gle between  its  principles  and  its  living,  and  then  they 
rose  from  the  table.  When  June  heard  that  Minetta 
wasn't  coming  with  them  she  wanted  to  stay  behind 
and  help;  but  Minetta  persuaded  her  that  she  would 
only  be  in  the  way,  and  that  anyway  she  couldn't  help 
her  with  her  painting;  and  presently,  with  towels  and 
costumes,  she  and  John  Willie  went  forth  and,  after 
a  casual  discussion  about  its  being  rather  soon  after 
breakfast  to  bathe,  descended  to  the  beach. 

June  was  certainly  a  pretty  enough  girl  for  even  a 
fastidious  young  man  to  be  seen  about  with.  No  neater 
shoes  than  those  that  moved  beneath  the  gypsophylla 
of  her  petticoats  were  to  be  seen  on  the  whole  Prome- 
nade, and  she  held  her  longish  figure  trimly,  and  was 
almost  on  the  "  fast "  side  with  her  little  thin  switch 
of  a  cane.  She  was  an  inch  taller  than  John  Willie, 
too,  which  was  another  inch  of  smartness  to  be  seen 
walking  with.  He  found  her  a  bathing-machine  and 
secured  another  for  himself;  and  when,  presently,  they 
lay  on  their  backs  side  by  side  a  hundred  yards  farther 
out  from  the  shore  than  anybody  else,  with  the  sun  hot 
on  their  faces  and  their  eyes  blinking  up  at  the  intense 
blue,  they  continued  to  talk  as  they  had  talked  before 
—  of  who  had  been  to  Llanyglo  lately  and  who  had 


JUKE  267 

not,  and  of  what  had  become  of  Mrs.  Maynard,  and 
whether  anybody  had  seen  Hilda  Morrell  lately,  and 
whether  that  London  man  —  what  was  his  name  —  Mr. 
Ashton  —  had  been  heard  of  since.  John  Willie,  for 
his  part,  asked  how  Mrs.  Lacey  and  Wiggie  were,  and 
told  June  what  a  lot  was  thought  of  her  father's  laying 
out  of  the  Kursaal  Gardens,  and  asked  her  when  the 
work  was  expected  to  be  finished. 

Then  they  came  in  again,  dressed,  and  regained  the 
Promenade. 

John  Willie  was  surprised  to  find  how  quickly  the 
morning  went.  The  Concert  was  half  over  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  Pavilion,  and  when  the  Concert  was 
over  and  the  drub-drub  on  the  boards  of  the  Pier  be- 
came incessant,  June  said  that,  build  as  they  would,  it 
would  be  a  long  time  before  they  built  on  the  Trwyn. 
To  that  John  Willie  replied  that  he  wasn't  so  sure, 
and  told  her  of  how  at  one  time  it  had  been  a.  toss-up 
whether  they  wouldn't  make  a  terrace  there  and  build 
the  "  Imperial "  on  it ;  and  June's  reply  was  that  she 
would  never  have  thought  it.  Then  John  Willie  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  at  first  thought  it  must  have  stopped, 
the  time  had  flown  so.  They  turned  their  faces  to  the 
Promenade  again,  and  at  a  Booking  Kiosk  John  Willie 
ordered  a  landau  for  half-past  two.  Minetta  (he  told 
June)  would  have  finished  her  work  by  then,  and  the 
three  of  them  could  go  either  out  Abercelyn  way,  or 
through  Porth  Neigr  and  round  home,  or  along  the 
Delyn  road,  just  as  June  wished.  June  said  that  if 
she  really  had  her  choice,  she  would  like  the  Abercelyn 
drive,  because  it  was  years  since  she  had  been  there, 
and  she  would  like  to  see  how  much  it  had  altered. 

So  out  towards  Abercelyn  the  three  of  them  went 
that  afternoon,  and  June's  eyes  opened  wide  at  the 


268  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Sarn  manganese  sidings,  and  John  Willie  told  her  to 
mind  that  gypsophylla  of  her  petticoats  against  the  coal- 
heaps  and  grease-boxes  of  the  wagons.  Then  back  in 
the  landau  again,  he  took  a  well-earned  rest  while 
Minetta  and  June  talked.  He  leaned  back  against  the 
hot  leather,  and  smoked  and  watched  them,  and  won- 
dered, first,  whether  anybody  would  ever  marry  Mi- 
netta, and,  next,  whether  anybody  would  ever  marry 
June,  and  then  all  at  once  found  himself  wondering 
about  the  gipsy  girl  again. 

Suppose  he  should  take  seats  for  June  and  Minetta 
at  some  entertainment  that  evening,  should  see  them 
comfortably  settled,  and  should  then  go  out  for  another 
look  for  her  ?  .  .  . 

But,  now  that  he  knew  who  she  was,  he  thought  of 
her,  somehow,  ever  so  slightly  differently.  He  was 
no  less  set  on  finding  her;  indeed  he  was  more  set; 
but  part  of  the  possible  surprise  and  excitement  had 
certainly  gone.  Had  he  apparently  not  been  destined 
not  to  see  her  again,  the  thing  would  have  been  less 
of  an  adventure  than  he  had  at  first  supposed.  There 
would  have  been  far  fewer  discoveries  to  make.  It 
might  even  have  been  difficult  to  talk  to  her.  He  could 
talk  pleasantly  to  June  and  be  thinking  of  something 
else  all  the  time;  but  he  could  hardly  have  asked  Ynys 
Lovell  how  her  mother  was  getting  on  with  her  chair- 
mending  and  fortune-telling,  or  have  told  her  that  he 
had  heard  that  her  kinsman  Dafydd  Dafis  had  won 
the  "  penillion "  contest  at  the  Eisteddfod.  .  .  . 

Ah! 

Again  he  had  it,  and,  lying  back  on  the  hot  leather 
of  the  hired  landau,  wondered  that  he  had  not  had  it 
sooner.  Of  course  —  Dafydd  Dafis.  If  anybody  knew 


JUKE  269 

where  she  was,  Dafydd  would  know.  That  was  what 
he  would  do  that  evening  while  Minetta  and  June  were 
at  the  Concert.  He  would  take  a  stroll  to  Dafydd's 
house  (which  was  no  longer  the  single-roomed  cottage 
near  the  old  Independent  Chapel,  but  a  two-roomed 
one  in  Maengwyn  Street),  and  he  would  sit  down  and 
have  a  smoke  and  ask  Dafydd  how  all  was  with 
him.  .  .  . 

At  this  point  he  became  conscious  that  June  was 
speaking  to  him.  She  was  offering  him  a  penny  for 
his  thoughts.  Instantly  he  fell  into  the  rut  of  easy 
conversation  again.  It  took  him  hardly  a  moment  to 
find  a  topic. 

"  Eh  ?  "  he  said.  .  .  .  "  Oh !  —  You  can  have  them 
for  nothing.  I  was  just  thinking  of  that  place  of  the 
Kerrs  in  Pontnewydd  Street.  I  suppose  you've  heard 
all  about  that  ?  " 

"  No,  I've  not  heard  a  word,"  June  declared.  "  Do 
tell  me!" 

After  all,  it  was  but  a  step  from  his  real  thought  to 
the  narrative  he  now  told  June.  Between  Dafydd 
Dan's  and  Tommy  Kerr  was  now  the  association  of  an 
all  but  declared  feud,  which  would  break  out  into 
open  enmity  the  moment  anything  happened  to  Tommy's 
brother  Ned.  More  than  any  man  in  Llanyglo  Dafydd 
had  writhed  at  that  wonderful  building  of  the  Hafod 
Unos,  and  since  then  he  had  remembered  something  else 
that  had  set  him  darkly  flushing.  It  had  been  Tommy 
Kerr  (or  one  of  his  boon  companions  —  it  came  to 
the  same  thing)  who,  when  Dafydd  had  returned  rapt 
after  the  first  day  of  the  Eisteddfod,  had  cast  two- 
pence on  the  ground  and  had  drunkenly  demanded  a 
song.  .Yes,  that  remark,  scarce  heard  at  the  time,  had 


270  MUSHROOM  TOWK 

come  back  since.  They  had  offered  him,  Dafydd,  their 
dirty  dross  in  exchange  for  Song,  and  had  bidden  him 
stoop  to  pick  it  up.  .  .  . 

And  that  mortal  insult  had  reminded  Dafydd  of  an 
older  memory  still.  This  was,  that  of  the  four  Kerrs, 
Tommy  had  been  the  only  one  who  had  not  tumbled 
into  that  open  boat  when  that  chilling  cry  of  "  Llong- 
drylliad!"  had  sounded  on  that  stormy  night  years 
and  years  before.  That  that  had  not  been  Tommy's 
fault  mattered  nothing;  as  soon  as  Dafydd  haql  remem- 
bered this  he  had  felt  himself  released  from  the  last 
shadow  of  an  obligation.  It  was  another  stick  to  beat 
Tommy  with  and  "  beating  him  "  now  meant,  as  every- 
body knew,  waiting  until  his  brother  died  and  then 
"  purring  "  him  out  of  the  Hafod,  if  not  by  fair  means, 
then  —  well,  purring  him  out  none  the  less. 

And  that  stick  Tommy  was  to  be  beaten  with  was 
only  the  latest  of  many.  It  was  a  whole  history  of 
sticks  —  of  the  Council's  Sons  of  Belial  set  at  Tommy, 
collectors,  inspectors  of  this  and  that  and  the  other, 
policemen  to  apprehend  him  for  drunkenness,  sergeants 
to  warn  publicans  that  if  they  harboured  Tommy  they 
might  be  made  to  feel  it  in  other  ways.  .  .  .  But  lately 
they  had  withdrawn  this  last  prohibition.  Putting  their 
heads  together,  they  had  judged  it  best  that  Tommy 
should  drink  all  he  could,  and  more.  .  .  .  He  had  done 
so,  and  did  not  seem  a  single  penny  the  worse  for  it. 
Moreover,  he  had  now  openly  declared  himself  an  abom- 
inator  of  Welshmen  and  everything  else  Welsh. 
Nightly  he  zig-zagged  home  crying  out  against  the  whole 
smiling,  thievish  crew,  their  Kursaals  and  Pavilions 
and  Dancing-Halls  and  Concerts  Llanyglo.  He  lurched 
along  Pontnewydd  Street  after  everybody  else  had  gone 
to  bed,  roaring  "  Glan  Meddwdod  Mwyn."  How  he 


JUNE  271 

had  twenty  times  escaped  breaking  his  neck  when  they 
had  laid  down  the  Pontnewydd  Street  tramlines  no- 
body knew.  .  .  .  And  whenever  he  remembered  that 
they  wanted  his  Hafod  and  would  have  it  as  soon  as 
Ned  died,  he  offered  to  give  it  away  to  any  Welshman 
who  would  repeat  after  him,  word  for  word  .  .  .  but 
his  forms  of  words  varied  widely,  and  no  more  than 
the  Amalekites  could  some  of  those  against  whom  he 
railed  pronounce  his  words  that  began  with  "  sh." 

So  John  Willie,  as  the  landau  bowled  homewards, 
had  to  tell  June  all  this,  and  June  was  extraordinarily 
interested.  Minetta  watched  them  both,  and,  in  her 
turn,  wondered  about  John  Willie  and  his  marrying. 
She  liked  to  have  June  to  visit  her ;  she  wasn't  so  sure 
that  she  wanted  June  as  a  standing  ornamental  dish. 
Indeed  she  rather  thought  she  didn't,  and,  allowing  for 
many  large  but  still  accidental  differences,  Minetta  was 
not  without  a  trace  of  the  malicious  humour  of  Tommy 
Kerr  himself. 

In  fairness  she  had  to  admit,  however,  that  so  far 
there  were  no  signs  that  June  was  setting  her  cap  at 
John  Willie. 

That  night  again,  however,  John  Willie  had  little 
luck  of  his  searching,  this  time  of  Dafydd  Dafis.  He 
sought  him  at  his  home,  he  sought  him  abroad,  but 
he  failed  to  find  him  and  he  joined  June  and  his 
sister  again  where  they  sat  listening  to  The  Lunas, 
those  incomparable  Drawing-Room  Entertainers.  He 
bought  them  chocolate  and  he  bought  them  ices,  and 
then,  at  the  end  of  the  performance,  he  proposed  a  walk 
along  the  Promenade  before  they  turned  in.  Not  to 
lose  them,  he  passed  an  arm  through  either  of  theirs, 
his  sister's  arm  and  that  of  this  tall  and  pretty  and  un- 
disturbing  extension  of  his  sister.  They  set  their  faces 


2T2  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

towards  the  Pier  that  stretched  like  a  sparkling  finger 
out  to  sea. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  ebb,  and  lately,  at  that  hour, 
an  odd  and  new  activity  had  begun  to  make  sharper 
that  contrast  between  the  bright  and  crowded  and  rest- 
less Promenade  and  the  solemn  void  that  pushed  as  it 
were  its  dark  breast  against  that  two-miles-long  chain 
of  gold  and  silver  lamps,  straining  the  slender  fetter 
into  a  curve.  Down  below  the  railings,  at  three  or  four 
points,  not  more,  an  upturned  face  with  tightly  shut  eyes 
was  praying  aloud.  They  looked  like  little  floating, 
drowned,  yet  speaking  masks.  Each  evangelist  had  his 
little  knot  of  three  or  four  companions,  but  these  had 
come  with  him,  and  of  hearers  they  had  none.  They 
stood  on  the  trampled  sand,  just  below  the  gas-lighted 
line  of  pebbles;  a  boat  drawn  up,  or  a  yard  or  two  of 
groyne,  struggled  between  light  and  shadow  beyond 
them ;  far  out  in  the  bay  the  twinkle  of  a  solitary  light 
could  be  seen;  the  rest  was  blackness  and  immensity. 
It  made  Infinity  seem  strangely  weak.  Here  It  was, 
striving  to  make  Itself  known  to  the  finite,  Its  sole 
instrument  a  little  oval  mask  and  a  voice  that  could  not 
be  heard  five  yards  away ;  and  never  a  head  was  turned. 
Calling  and  laughing,  the  babel  of  their  voices  like  the 
rattle  of  the  pebbles  that  roll  back  with  the  retiring 
wave,  they  passed  and  passed  and  passed.  One  would 
have  said  that  some  vast  angelic  skater  had  cut  that 
sweeping  outside-edge  of  light,  and  then,  repulsed,  had 
rushed  away  into  the  darkness  again. 

And  this  was  something  else  for  John  Willie  to  tell 
this  pretty,  unexigent  June.  It  had  only  been  going 
on  about  a  fortnight,  he  said,  but  he  didn't  think 
they'd  heard  the  last  of  it  yet.  There  was  a  Revival 
or  something  coming  slowly  up  the  coast,  he  said,  and 


JUNE  273 

—  who  did  June  think  was  doing  it?  —  why,  Eesaac 
Oliver  Gruffydd! 

"  Never !  "  June  exclaimed. 

"  Eather !  You  remember  him,  don't  you  ?  Howell 
Gruffydd  the  grocer's  son ;  pale-faced  chap,  with  a  great 
lump  of  hair ;  and  by  Jove,  he  is  stirring  'em  up !  He 
started  at  Aberystwith,  and  worked  his  way  up  through 
Aberdovey  and  Towyn  and  Barmouth  and  Portmadoc, 
with  no  end  of  crowds  following  him  wherever  he  went. 
I  expect  he'll  be  here  presently.  If  he  comes 
when  the  Wakes  are  on  there  will  be  a  shindy! 
.  .  .  I  say,  aren't  you  feeling  a  bit  cold?  Bet- 
ter be  getting  along  home.  I'll  take  you  as  far  as  the 
corner,  and  then  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  leave  you  — 
I  want  to  find  a  man  if  I  can " 

Five  minutes  later  he  had  got  rid  of  them,  and  stood 
in  meditation.  Was  it  worth  while  trying  for  Dafydd 
Dafis  again  ?  Or  taking  another  stroll  along  the  Pier  ? 
Perhaps  it  wasn't.  He  was  rather  tired,  and  this 
seemed  a  stupid  kind  of  thing  he  had  been  doing  for 
the  last  few  days.  He'd  potter  about  with  June  for  an- 
other day  —  perhaps  he  had  rather  neglected  Minetta 
lately  —  and  then  for  the  fishing  up  Delyn.  In  that 
way  he  would  be  off  just  as  the  Wakes  people  arrived. 
Already  the  lodging-house  keepers  were  getting  ready 
for  them,  putting  away  their  ornaments  and  so  on. 
They  would  be  here  on  Friday  night ;  to-day  was  Wed- 
nesday; John  Willie  would  be  off  on  Friday  morn- 
ing. 

This  time  he  kept  to  his  decision.  He  walked  about 
with  the  pretty  and  untroublesome  June  all  the  next 
morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  Minetta  joined  them. 
She  approved  warmly  of  his  fishing-plan,  and  said  she 
was  sure  the  change  would  do  him  good.  He  told  them 


274:  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

to  keep  away  from  the  crowds  and  not  to  be'  out  too  late, 
and  then,  on  the  Friday  morning  set  off. 

When,  at  nine  o'clock  the  same  night,  he  walked  up 
the  path  again  and  appeared  in  the  dining-room  just  as 
June  and  Minetta  were  thinking  of  going  to  bed,  Mi- 
netta  stared.  She  had  thought  him  miles  away. 

She  stared  still  harder  when  he  mumbled  that  he  had 
"  forgotten  something,"  and  intended  to  be  off  again 
in  the  morning. 


Ill 

DEX-Ytf 

HE  had  not  at  first  seen  that  black  dress.  Sharpe's 
old  cottage  was  never  locked,  and  he  had  walked 
straight  in,  had  put  down  his  little  dressing-bag,  and 
had  begun  to  empty  his  pockets,  setting  his  flask,  his 
fly-book,  his  store  of  tobacco  and  certain  provisions 
on  the  little  deal  table  under  the  single  window.  At 
a  first  glance  there  was  nothing  to  show  that  the  place 
had  been  entered  since  he  had  last  been  there.  The 
mattress  of  Sharpe's  narrow  pallet  had  been  rolled  up 
at  the  bed-head  and  a  patchwork  quilt  spread  over  it; 
the  two  windsor  chairs  stood  in  their  accustomed  places ; 
and  the  rods  in  their  brown  canvas  covers  stood  as  usual 
in  the  corner.  Only  Sharpe's  photographs  had  gone 
from  the  walls,  leaving  the  little  black  heads  of  nails 
and  tacks,  each  over  its  slightly  paler  oblong  of  plain 
deal  boarding. 

Had  not  John  Willie  thought  that  he  had  better  drag 
the  bedding  on  which  he  was  to  sleep  out  into  the  sun 
at  once,  he  would  not  have  found  the  frock.  It  had 
been  thrown  across  the  roll  of  mattress  and  covered  with 
that  old  piece  of  patchwork.  Nor,  since  it  was  folded 
in  a  square,  did  he  even  then  recognise  the  thing  for 
a  frock.  Only  when  he  had  picked  it  up  and  it  had  re- 
vealed itself  had  he  stood,  suddenly  arrested,  alternately 
gazing  at  it  and  then  looking  obliquely  at  the  floor. 
Then,  as  he  had  slowly  put  it  down  again,  at  its  full 

275 


276  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

length  this  time,  there  had  peeped  at  him  from  half 
under  the  roll  of  mattress,  first  a  white  linen  collar  with 
one  of  the  little  sham  pearl  studs  that  are  given  away 
with  such  things  still  in  one  of  its  button-holes,  and 
next  a  pair  of  tiny  cylindrical  cuffs.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  already,  deep  within  himself,  he  had  known 
that  she  was  not  far  away.  .  .  . 

Then,  slowly  and  methodically,  he  had  begun  to  search 
the  hut.  His  search  had  been  productive  of  the  fol- 
lowing discoveries :  — 

Thrust  under  the  bed:  A  newish  oval  brown  tin 
box  (which  he  had  not  opened),  and  a  pair  of  black 
shoes. 

On  the  lower  shelf  of  Sharpe's  little  provision-cup- 
board :  a  round  narrow-brimmed  black  hat. 

On  the  upper  shelf,  among  cups,  plates,  and  other 
odds  and  ends:  A  seven-pound  paper  bag  half  full  of 
flour,  and  a  mug  with  some  still  fresh  milk  in  it  —  he 
tasted  it. 

Outside  the  hut:  A  stone  or  two  in  a  little  clearing 
in  the  fern,  a  stick-heap,  the  ashes  of  a  recent  fire,  and 
a  frying-pan. 

Then  he  had  re-entered  the  hut.  He  had  sat  down 
in  one  of  the  windsor  chairs.  He  had  been  filling  his 
third  or  perhaps  his  fourth  pipe  when  she  herself  had 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

All  this  had  been  the  day  before. 

As  he  now  walked  up  that  one-in-seven  slope  under 
the  firs  he  remembered  again,  for  the  fiftieth  time  in 
twenty  hours,  her  appearance  as  she  had  stood  there. 
She  had  worn  an  old  red  blouse  which  she  had  not 
troubled  to  tuck  in  at  the  waist,  a  petticoat  of  faded 
greenish-blue  (no  gypsophylla  there),  and  her  legs  and 


DELYN  277 

feet  had  been  bare.  And  at  first  he  had  thought  she 
was  going  to  run  away.  But  she  had  only  recoiled  as 
a  cat  recoils,  yielding  ground  without  abandoning  it. 
He  himself  had  not  moved.  Move,  and  she  might  still 
be  off  as  suddenly  as  a  hare ;  sit  still  and  say  "  Hallo, 
Tnys,  not  much  in  the  chair-mending  line  up  here,  is 
there  ? "  and  she  might  stay.  .  .  .  And  now,  as  he 
trudged  up  under  the  firs,  he  blamed  Llanyglo  that  he 
had  not  heard  that  her  mother  was  dead.  Had  Llanyglo 
remained  a  hamlet,  or  had  it  grown  merely  reasonably 
and  within  measure,  the  death  even  of  Belle  Lovell 
would  have  been  an  event;  now,  with  towns  in  Lan- 
cashire half -emptied  (he  had  seen  it  that  morning, 
Llanyglo  black  and  boiling  like  a  cauldron  of  pitch  with 
the  people  of  the  Wakes)  —  now  such  simple  happen- 
ings passed  unnoticed.  Belle  had  died  a  year  before, 
but  that  was  not  the  reason  Ynys  wore  black.  She 
wore  black  because  black  was  the  livery  of  Philip  Lacey's 
Liverpool  flower-shop  girls.  Black  showed  up  the 
flowers  to  better  advantage.  Ynys,  after  months  of 
lonely  wanderings  and  getting  of  her  bread  as  best  she 
could,  had  remembered  Philip  Lacey's  promise  when 
she  had  cut  her  foot  that  morning  on  the  shore,  had 
tramped  to  Liverpool,  had  asked  for  Philip  at  his  prin- 
cipal establishment  in  Lord  Street,  and  now  sold  stately 
blooms  the  poor  hedgerow  cousins  of  which  she  had 
formerly  given  away,  pattering  bare-foot  after  pedes- 
trians on  the  road  with  them  in  her  hand.  She  had 
been  given  a  fortnight's  holiday,  and  had  come  to 
Llanyglo  to  spend  it. 

As  the  path  under  the  firs  grew  steeper  still,  John 
Willie  wondered  whether  she  would  have  kept  her  word 
to  him.  He  had  made  her  welcome  to  the  cottage  of 
which  she  had  already  made  free,  but  that,  he  knew, 


278  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

did  not  mean  that  she  might  not  have  packed  up  and 
fled  the  moment  he  had  turned  his  back  —  no,  not  even 
though  she  had  promised  not  to  do  so.  He  had  seen 
enough  of  her  yesterday  to  guess  that  her  word  given 
would  be  an  empty  and  artificial  thing  the  moment 
her  inclination  changed;  nay,  she  might  have  given  it 
with  no  intention  whatever  of  keeping  it,  just  to  gain 
a  little  time.  Even  should  he  find  her  frock  and  her  oval 
tin  box  still  there,  that  would  not  necessarily  mean  that 
she  would  return.  A  box  of  matches  was  her  luggage. 
Except  as  a  depository  for  these  things  she  had  not  used 
the  hut.  She  had  cooked  her  meals  outside,  and  had 
slept  on  a  litter  of  bracken. 

Nevertheless,  John  Willie  had  left  the  cottage  to 
her,  and,  for  fear  a  stray  shepherd  might  gossip,  had 
himself  returned  home  rather  than  sleep  at  the  inn  a 
few  miles  below. 

He  continued  to  climb,  past  rocks  spotted  with  penny- 
wort and  trickling  with  rills,  orange  and  whitey-green 
with  lichen  and  tongued  with  polyp  odi,  past  crops  of 
dead  nettle  and  vistas  of  fronds,  past  dust  of  pine- 
needles  and  debris  of  cones.  Now  and  then  a  flutter 
of  wings  broke  the  stillness  of  the  aisles,  but  no  song; 
and  always  he  had  the  skyline  almost  overhead  on  his 
right,  and  on  his  left,  beyond  the  little  grid  of  reser- 
voirs far  below,  the  crisscrossing  AAAA's  of  a  moun- 
tain-side of  larches. 

She  had  not  taken  advantage  of  his  absence  to  fly. 
He  saw  her  as  he  ceased  to  climb  and  gained  the  half- 
way fold  that  held  Llyn  Delyn  in  its  crook.  She  was 
standing  outside  the  hut,  but  she  was  not  wearing  the 
old  unconfined  red  blouse  of  the  day  before  now.  The 
small  spot  he  saw  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead  was  a  black 
one.  He  waved  his  hand,  but  she  did  not  respond. 


DELYN  279 

He  saw  her  sit  down  with  her  back  against  the  wall  of 
the  hut  and  cross  her  arms  over  her  knees.  Three  min- 
utes later  he  was  standing  beside  her. 

And  now  that  he  had  come  he  was  not  very  clear 
in  his  mind  why  he  had  come.  True,  he  could  have 
given  a  dozen  reasons  —  the  bursting  over  the  town 
of  that  flood  of  operatives  he  had  seen  that  morning, 
his  desire  to  fish,  his  wish  (as  he  now  suddenly  and 
rather  startlingly  knew)  to  escape  further  attendance 
on  June,  and  so  forth;  and  these  reasons  would  have 
been  precisely  a  dozen  too  many.  Had  all  Lancashire 
been  drubbing  on  the  Pier  and  she  standing  under  the 
crimson  light  watching  that  strange  and  dhowlike  sail 
of  the  moon  glaring  orange  over  the  water,  John  Willie 
would  not  have  been  up  Delyn.  He  had  intended  to 
fish,  but  fishing  was  now  far  from  his  thoughts.  And 
already  he  was  aware  of  another  thing,  namely,  that 
while  June  had  been  no  trouble  at  all  to  talk  to,  talk 
with  Ynys  was  a  heavy  business.  Yesterday,  every 
sentence  he  had  attempted  had  been  as  difficult  as  if 
it  had  been  the  first.  Only  by  a  series  of  almost  violent 
extractions  had  he  learned  that  her  mother  was  dead 
and  that  she  sold  flowers  (curious  that  they  should  have 
been  June's  father's  flowers!)  in  Liverpool.  He  sup- 
posed he  must  begin  to  talk  again  now.  He  could 
hardly  be  with  her  and  not  talk.  Well,  if  he  must  talk, 
he  would. 

"  I  say,  you're  well  out  of  it  all  to-day ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, with  apparent  heartiness.  "  They  began  to 
come  in  at  eleven  last  evening,  and  they've  been  coming 
in  all  night.  Whew,  but  I  ran,  I  can  tell  you !  " 

She  had  been  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  lake, 
which,  however,  she  could  hardly  have  seen,  so  low 
did  she  sit;  and  he,  as  he  stood,  could  see  no  more 


280  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

of  her  than  the  straight  white  parting  of  her  hair  and 
her  tanned  forearms  and  wrists  about  her  knees.  The 
black  of  her  dress  was  a  sooty  black,  but  you  would 
only  have  called  her  hair  black  because  there  was  noth- 
ing else  to  call  it.  It  was  neither  more  nor  less  black 
than  a  bowl  of  black  lustre  is  black;  it  had  a  surface, 
but  it  had  also  depths  where  you  saw  the  sun  again,  and 
the  sky  lurked,  and  the  green  of  the  ferns  that  grew 
about  the  hut.  Had  John  Willie  put  his  hand  near  it 
it  might  have  been  dimly  reflected,  as  it  would  have  been 
reflected  in  a  peat  pool. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  seemed  almost  to  startle  her, 
but  she  did  not  look  up. 

"  Hwhat  do  you  say  ?  "  she  said.  She  slightly  over- 
stressed  the  internal  "  h's,"  and  her  accent  was  Welsh, 
but  uniquely  soft.  As  she  had  not  heard,  he  had  to 
repeat  his  remark. 

"  I  mean  those  Wakes  people.  There  are  thousands 
of  them  there  now."  He  made  a  little  motion  of  his 
head  behind  him.  "  It's  better  up  here."  Then,  as 
still  she  did  not  reply,  he  asked  her  a  direct  question. 
"You  didn't  stay  long  in  Llanyglo,  did  you?" 

"  I  stay  there  one  day,"  she  answered.  A  scarcely 
perceptible  movement  of  her  forefinger  accompanied 
the  numeral. 

"  Oh,  then  of  course  that  was  the  day  I  saw  you. 
Did  you  see  me  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  were  standing  at  the  pier-head,  watching  the 
moon  rise." 

Ynys  did  not  deny  this.     Neither  did  she  confirm  it. 

"  Then  you  disappeared,"  John  Willie  continued, 
"  and  I  couldn't  find  you  again." 

To  this  she  replied  after  a  moment. — "  I  went  back 


DELYN  281 

to  the  house,  and  paid  the  Englishwoman,  and  then  I 
came  away.  In  the  morning  I  arrive  here." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  walked  all  night  ? " 

"  There  is  lit-tle  night  this  time  of  the  year." 

John  Willie  was  silent.  Only  a  week  before  he  had 
left  an  evening  party  at  the  "  Imperial "  to  find  the  sun 
already  burning  a  hole  in  the  edge  of  Mynedd  Mawr. 

"  And  how  much  longer  holiday  have  you  ? "  John 
Willie  asked  presently. 

"  Six  days,"  answered  the  girl ;  and  again  the  num- 
eral was  accompanied  by  a  slight  gesture  of  her  fingers. 

"  And  then  you  go  back  to  Liverpool  ?  " 

Complete  silence  was  all  the  answer  he  had  to  that 
question. 

Then,  suddenly,  Ynys  moved.  She  stood  up.  For 
the  first  time  her  seaweed-coloured  eyes  looked  straight 
into  John  Willie's. 

"  You  left  that  place  early.  You  will  be  hungry.  I 
caught  some  fis-s  —  brithyll.  I  think  she  cooked  now." 

She  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  hut. 

John  Willie  would  have  liked  to  ask  her  why  she 
had  put  on  the  black  dress  and  the  black  shoes,  but 
something  seemed  to  whisper  to  him  not  to  do  so. 
No  doubt  she  had  caught  the  trout  with  her  hand,  in 
one  of  the  pools  of  a  stream  that  slid  and  chattered 
under  fern  down  the  side  of  Delyn,  and  he  feared  that 
did  he  approach  her  too  suddenly  even  by  words  she 
might  be  off,  even  as  those  trout  would  have  vanished 
in  a  flash  at  the  least  disturbance  of  the  water  by  her 
hand.  She  had  cooked  them  on  the  wood;  she  had 
also  made  a  cake  of  flour  and  water  and  no  salt;  and 
she  served  the  fish  in  a  tin  platter  by  the  little  clearing 
she  had  made  for  the  hearth.  He  sat  now,  and  she 
stood ;  she  brought  also  a  mug  of  milk,  from  the  surface 


282  MUSHKOOH  TOWN 

of  which  she  took  a  tiny  caterpillar  with  the  tip  of  a 
frond;  and  when  he  had  eaten  she  cleaned  the  platter 
by  scouring  it  with  a  handful  of  fern-rot  and  then  set- 
ting it  in  a  little  stream  with  a  stone  upon  it.  Then 
they  stood  before  one  another  again,  he  with  his  back 
to  the  hut,  she  in  front  of  him,  her  head  always  superbly 
erect,  but  slowly  turning  from  time  to  time,  while  her 
eyes  sought  the  lake,  the  line  of  bracken  against  the 
sky  where  the  mountain  dropped,  and  his  own  eyes, 
indifferently. 

Then,  unexpectedly,  she  asked  a  question. 

"  You  come  to  fis-s  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  said  that  he  had  thought  of  it. 

"  There  is  wa-ter  in  the  boat,  but  indeed  I  not  touch 
it.  I  go  and  empty  it,"  she  said. 

But  he  stopped  her. — "  Oh,  it's  no  good  now  —  too 
bright,"  he  said.  "  Might  try  in  the  evening.  Sit 
down,  won't  you  ?  I  want  to  ask  you  some  questions." 

She  curled  herself  up  in  the  bracken,  and  he  set  his 
back  against  the  wall  of  the  hut  and  began  to  fill  his 
pipe. 

But  instead  of  questioning  her,  John  Willie  had  all 
the  appearances  of  a  man  who  was  questioning  him- 
self. He  sat  a  little  behind  Ynys,  so  that  when  she 
looked  straight  before  her  he  lost  her  full  profile;  and 
he  moved  no  more  than  she.  He  was  suddenly  think- 
ing how  thoroughly  sick  he  was  of  Llanyglo. 

For  if  he  had  helped  to  make  Llanyglo,  and  knew 
its  lighting  and  its  watering,  its  building  and  its  leases 
and  its  subsoil,  Llanyglo  had  also  helped  to  make  him. 
The  drub-drub  on  the  Pier,  the  inanities  of  his  friend 
Percy  Briggs,  evening  parties  that  began  at  midnight 
and  ended  with  the  sun  high  in  the  sky,  complaints 
from  his  sister  that  she  saw  him  only  in  the  short  in- 


DELYJST  283 

tervals  between  a  coming  home  and  a  setting  out  again 
—  this  had  been  pretty  much  the  reaction  of  Llanyglo 
on  John  Willie  Garden.  He  was  a  very  ordinary  young 
man. —  But  here  was  a  world  peopled  only  by  sheep, 
the  myriad  insects  that  hopped  and  wove  and  chirruped 
in  the  tall  fern,  the  kites  and  curlews  overhead,  and  the 
trout  far  below  the  surface  of  the  lake.  His  lashes  made 
rainbows  before  his  half-closed  eyes,  and  those  eyes, 
opening  again,  could  gaze  at  the  tips  of  the  sunny  fern 
against  the  deeps  of  the  sky  until  the  difference  between 
them  became  almost  as  intensified  as  the  difference  be- 
tween dark  and  bright.  Spiders  no  bigger  than  freckles 
seemed  to  be  doing  important  things  under  their  bright 
green  roofs  —  for  only  the  under  sides  of  the  fronds 
were  green  and  translucent:  the  fern  on  which  the  sun 
beat  directly  was  no  more  green  than  Ynys's  hair  was 
black.  .  .  .  And  the  sunny  parts  of  Ynys's  arms  were 
of  the  colour  of  a  hayfield  with  much  sorrel,  while  the 
round  beneath  was  as  cool  as  the  under  curve  of  a  boat 
on  the  water.  .  .  . 

It  would  have  been  part  of  the  peace  of  that  hot 
midday  could  he  have  dozed  with  his  head  in  the  crook 
of  that  arm. 

Of  other  desire  to  break  its  peace  had  he  none. 

And  Ynys  ? 

She  had  seen  those  fretted  parasols  of  the  fern, 
meshed  and  lacy  and  interpenetrating,  a  vast  rug  of 
whispering  f rondage  —  she  had  seen  them,  or  their  like, 
since  they  had  been  no  more  than  tender,  uncurling 
pastoral  staffs,  brown,  with  tiny  inner  crocketts  not 
even  green  yet.  She  had  watched  them  unfold  their 
weak  fingers  —  yes,  from  Lord  Street,  Liverpool,  she 
had  watched  them  unroll  as  a  soft  caterpillar  unrolls. 
In  a  cool  and  darkened  shop,  with  the  floor  always  wet, 


284  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

she  had  seen,  with  those  seaweed-coloured  eyes,  not  the 
great  queenly  hydrangeas,  nor  the  burning  torches  of 
the  gladioli,  nor  the  fat  and  scentless  roses,  nor  the 
great  half -pint  pitchers  of  the  arum  lilies  —  she  had 
seen,  not  these  cold  grandiflora,  but  the  celandine  and 
anemone  of  the  hedge-bottoms,  and  the  cool  pennywort 
on  the  rocks,  and  the  soft  and  imperceptible  change, 
day  by  day,  of  those  mountains  many,  many  railway 
stations  away.  Those  other  great  robed  and  wedding- 
dressed  blooms?  She  had  not  considered  them  to  be 
flowers.  Flowers  were  the  sappy  bluebells  she  had 
pulled,  white-stalked  and  squeaking,  from  the  banks,  re- 
ceiving a  penny  for  them  —  but  not  in  exchange.  She 
had  sold  the  hydrangea-things  without  even  seeing  them. 
And  her  own  weekly  fifteen  shillings  of  wages  had  not 
purchased  a  single  glance  of  her  eyes  nor  a  single  emo- 
tion of  her  heart. 

And  her  eyes  had  not  distinguished  less  between 
magnificent  bloom  and  magnificent  bloom  than  they  had 
between  this  and  the  other  collar,  tie,  and  bowler  hat 
who,  his  purchase  made,  had  lingered,  and  had  tried 
to  talk  to  her,  and  had  come  again.  Young  women 
who  can  see  Delyn  from  Liverpool  can  hardly  be  ex- 
pected so  to  distinguish.  These  young  men  had  not 
even  been,  as  the  balls  and  buckets  of  Howell  Gruffydd's 
shop-window  had  been,  beyond  her  reach,  she  below 
theirs.  She  and  they  might  breathe  the  same  air,  but 
they  extracted  different  elements  from  it. 

Was  that  true  also  of  herself  and  John  Willie  Garden, 
lying  now  among  the  fern  of  Delyn  —  John  Willie, 
whose  clothes  (even)  were  what  they  were  by  a  kind 
of  artifice,  and  not,  like  Dafydd  Dafis's,  as  if  the 
cropped  grasses  themselves  had  by  some  natural  alchemy 
become  wool,  and  the  wool  clothing,  that  would  be 


DELYK  285 

worn  out  by  labour  not  far  from  the  grasses  again  ?  .  .  . 

Because  he  did  not  know,  John  Willie  lay  there,  and 
watched  her  cheek  and  arm,  and  forgot  that  he  had 
said  he  was  going  to  ask  her  questions. 

The  silence  lasted  for  so  long  that,  when  at  last  he 
spoke,  she  might  (he  thought)  have  supposed  that  he 
had  had  a  nap  in  the  meantime.  He  hoisted  himself 
to  his  feet,  stretched  himself,  yawned  "  Ah,  that's  bet- 
ter !  "  and  then  added,  "  I  say,  you  might  show  me  where 
you  got  those  fish." 

Instantly,  a  gillie  incongruously  in  a  flower-seller's 
dress,  she  was  on  her  feet  and  walking  a  little  ahead. 
But  he  caught  her  up  and  kept  abreast  of  her.  They 
reached  the  boat,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  gravelly 
shallow,  but  she  went  straight  on  across  a  swampy 
little  stream  that  led  to  the  upper  margin  of  the  lake. 
Presently  it  seemed  to  John  Willie  that  they  would  have 
done  better  to  take  the  boat,  for  they  had  to  skirt  a  deep 
shaly  spur  the  slope  of  which  continued  unbroken  down 
under  the  water  and  gave  under  their  feet  the  moment 
they  tried  to  ascend  it.  At  a  point  where  she  splashed 
a  few  yards  ahead  of  him  John  Willie  suggested  that 
they  should  take  their  boots  and  stockings  off,  and  he 
had  a  momentary  fancy  that  the  brown  of  her  cheek 
deepened  a  little ;  but  she  made  no  reply,  and  they  kept 
on.  Then,  after  more  hundreds  of  yards  of  walking 
and  wading,  they  gained  firm  earth  again.  They  were 
at  the  bottom  of  a  V-shaped  ravine  into  which  all  the 
trees  and  scrub  of  the  mountain-sides  seemed  to  have 
settled.  It  was  known  to  a  few  shepherds  as  Glyn  lago, 
and  the  stream  came  down  it  over  jagged  stairs  of  pur- 
ple slate  and  under  dwarf-oak  and  birch,  thorn  and 
briar  and  mountain-ash. 

Again  it  would  have  been  better  to  wade  through 


286  MUSHROOM  TOW3T 

the  noisy  shallows  and  round  the  boulders  spongy  with 
drenched  moss,  and  again  he  suggested  it ;  but  perhaps 
the  deep  gurgle  of  the  fall  they  were  approaching 
drowned  his  voice.  He  went  ahead,  putting  aside  the 
worst  of  the  brambles,  and  he  knew  without  telling 
when  they  reached  the  pool.  It  was  long  enough  to  have 
plunged  into,  too  wide  to  have  leapt  across  even  had  the 
rocks  afforded  any  take-off,  and  it  deepened  gradually 
to  blackness,  and  then  boiled  pale  and  tumultuous  again 
under  the  plunge  of  a  twelve-foot  fall.  Over  the  pool 
itself  the  sunlight  glowed  in  spots  only  through  the 
leaves,  but  on  one  bank  there  was  a  sunny  clearing  of  a 
few  yards  square.  Then  the  trees  began  again,  up  and 
up  and  up  to  the  sky,  a  cliff  of  leaves  that  shut  the 
mountains  out  and  the  stream  in. 

He  let  her  sit  down  first.  This  she  did  where  she 
could  see  the  little  plants  and  mosses  at  the  water's  edge 
endlessly  a-quiver  with  the  tumult  of  the  fall.  Then, 
sitting  down  beside  her,  he  again  felt  that  he  must 
begin  talking  to  her  all  over  again.  His  mouth  flickered 
•for  a  moment  as  he  thought  of  Percy  Briggs  on  the 
Pier,  and  then  he  spoke. 

"  If  I  were  you  I  should  move  up  here,"  he  said. 

She  was  picking  up  a  snail-shell  to  throw  into  the 
water.  She  turned,  extraordinarily  quickly,  and  in  the 
seaweed  eyes  there  was  a  hard  and  defensive  look,  in- 
stant, yet  old. 

"  It  iss  only  my  hat  and  my  box,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Eh?  Oh! "  He  laughed.  "I  only  mean 

there'll  be  brakes  and  wagonettes  all  over  the  place 
now,  and  anybody  might  come  to  the  lake. —  I  say, 
you  didn't  think  I  meant  to  chuck  you  out,  did 
you?" 

"  I  thought  prapss  you  want  to  fiss,"  she  replied,  turn- 


DELYN  287 

ing  away  and  looking  at  the  gasogene  of  black  water 
again. 

He  laughed  again. — "  Oh,  no.  I  mean  you  don't 
sleep  there,  and  nobody'd  come  here,  and  I  could  get 
you  a  lock  and  key  so  that  your  things  would  be  safe. 
You  could  go  there  if  it  rained. 

She  tossed  the  snail-shell  into  the  water,  neither  ac- 
cepting his  offer  nor  rejecting  it. 

"  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "  I  know  that  if  anybody 
disturbed  you  you'd  be  off.  Look  here.  I'll  get  you 
that  lock  and  key.  I'm  off  back  to-night,  and  I'll  bring 
'em  up  to-morrow. —  But  you  will  be  here  won't  you  ?  " 

Again  —  he  could  not  be  sure  —  he  fancied  her 
colour  deepened. 

"  Hwhere  should  I  go  to  ?  "  she  said  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Well  —  anywhere  —  Liverpool  —  anywhere." 

And  again  her  reply  was  to  gaze  at  the  boiling  of  the 
air-bubbles  at  the  foot  of  the  fall. 

But  John  Willie  no  longer  wondered  that  he  should 
struggle  thus  with  a  conversation  when  there  were 
rills  and  rivulets  of  talk  waiting  for  him  at  home  at 
Llanyglo.  She  was  not  mute;  there  were  a  thousand 
communications  wrapped  up  in  her  very  presence.  She 
ran  over  with  unspoken  meanings,  babbled  for  all  her 
silence.  Her  hair,  nearly  all  cool  green  now,  as  the 
black  water  was  cool  green;  that  unlearned  balance  of 
her  head ;  the  curve  of  her  cheek ;  those  lovely,  despotic 
forearms  —  whether  that  least  member  of  her  whole 
sweet  parliament,  her  tongue,  moved  or  was  still,  there 
was  more  of  approach  in  all  of  these  than  in  June's 
"  Fancy !  Do  tell  me !  And  how's  So-and-So  getting 
on  ? "  These  were  the  weeds,  the  dusty  groundsel  of 
words ;  Ynys  was  her  own  vocabulary,  every  part  of  her 
a  part  of  speech.  .  .  . 


288  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

And  the  theme?  The  theme  that  every  corpuscle 
of  her  announced  as  she  sat  there,  listlessly  tossing 
snail-shells  and  twigs  and  rolled-up  leaves  and  blades 
of  grass  into  the  water? 

John  Willie  was  a  very  ordinary  young  man.  In 
Liverpool,  his  eyes  would  have  seen  very  little  but 
Liverpool.  Perhaps  that  was  why,  in  Glyn  lago,  he 
had  not  the  perfect  freedom  of  sun  and  air,  of  growing 
and  dying  things,  and  things  growing  again,  of  moving 
water,  of  that  essential  speech  with  this  creature  at  his 
side  that  at  the  last  has  no  need  of  words.  For,  for 
good  and  ill  mingled,  they  make  shames  and  fears  in  the 
Liverpools  of  the  land,  and  codes,  and  suppressions, 
and  the  apparatus  of  Conscience,  and  it  is  too  late  for 
you,  too  late  for  me,  too  late  for  John  Willie,  to  un- 
make them.  John  Willie  had  begun  by  questioning 
Ynys ;  now,  far  more  searchingly,  Ynys  was  questioning 
him. 

And  the  end  of  her  questioning  of  him  was  that  he 
would  have  called  himself  a  cur  had  he  as  much  as 
thought  of  not  doing  "  the  decent  thing.  .  .  ." 

Indeed  it  was  precisely  because  he  thought  so  reso- 
lutely and  intently  of  doing  that  thing  that  by  and  by 
he  rose.  It  was  only  half -past  four ;  he  could  be  home 
in  two,  or  two-and-a-half  hours ;  and  for  that  matter  he 
was  not  in  any  hurry  to  get  home.  He  was  in  a  hurry 
now  only  because  Ynys  spoke  too  much.  She  gave  him 
no  rest  from  her  close  inquisition.  He  must  answer 
those  questions  that  she  so  pressed  home  or  take  himself 
quickly  off,  to  add  (as  he  knew)  the  fuel  of  thought  to 
that  flame  with  which  he  already  burned. 

Therefore,  again  standing  by  her,  he  asked  her  one 
more  question  only. 


DELYK  289 

"  You  will  be  here  to-morrow  ? "  he  said,  his  eyes 
anxiously  on  her  face. 

What  his  answer  would  have  been  had  she  said 
"  ISTo,"  or  had  he  not  believed  that  nod  of  her  head, 
it  is  useless  to  ask. 

He  left  her  still  tossing  the  debris  into  the  water. 

He  began  to  be  aware  of  the  change  the  Wakes  people 
had  wrought  in  Llanyglo  before  the  trap  had  carried 
him  a  mile  along  the  road.  Twice  in  that  distance  he 
had  to  whip  up  to  get  through  the  dust  of  vehicles  ahead. 
He  had  been  right  in  saying  that  the  landaus  and  brakes 
and  wagonettes  would  be  all  over  the  place  now.  They 
were  taking  the  family  parties  back  to  dinner  at  the 
hotels. 

Then,  still  five  miles  from  Llanyglo,  he  began  to  al- 
low the  brakes  and  wagonettes  to  overtake  him  again. 
He  had  remembered  that  he  was  in  no  hurry.  Hurry 
would  only  mean  the  crowd  sooner,  the  noise  sooner, 
and  supper  sooner,  with  the  conversation  of  June  and 
Minetta.  At  a  place  called  Doll  he  turned  aside  into  a 
narrow  lane  that  would  take  him  by  a  circuitous  route 
into  the  Forth  ISTeigr  road  near  the  stone  quarries. 
Then,  sitting  sideways  on  the  seat,  with  his  head  sunk 
and  the  whiplash  trailing  over  the  dashboard,  he  al- 
lowed the  horse  to  take  him  at  its  own  pace. 

Of  course,  he  could  marry  Ynys ;  there  was  nothing 
to  be  said  against  that  except  that  hitherto  he  had  not 
thought  of  marriage.  Marriage,  in  John  Willie's  ob- 
servation of  his  married  friends  and  acquaintances, 
was  a  quite  definite  and  circumscribed  thing,  in  which 
prospects  played  a  part,  and  settlements,  and  houses 
of  a  certain  kind,  and  certain  well-marked  changes  in 


290  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

the  bride's  demeanour  towards  her  still  unmarried 
friends,  and  a  certain  tendency  to  stoutness  and  bald- 
ness on  the  part  of  the  groom.  Moreover,  behind  every 
suggested  marriage  there  lurked  the  question  whether 
it  "  would  do."  His  father  and  mother,  when  he  came 
to  speak  of  marriage,  would  want  to  know  whether  it 
would  "  do  "  ;  Minetta  would  have  her  opinion  about 
whether  it  would  "  do  "  ;  and  if  it  did  not  "  do,"  all 
his  friends  and  acquaintances  would  by  and  by  shake 
their  heads  and  say  that  it  had  been  plain  all  along 
how  that  would  turn  out.  .  .  . 

On  the  other  hand,  the  case  was  complicated  —  not 
in  principle  (that  was  beastly  clear)  —  but  by  allow- 
ances in  practise.  Llanyglo  had  for  some  time  been 
far  from  exacting ;  it  was  now,  in  certain  of  its  phases, 
at  any  rate,  almost  exacting  in  the  opposite  direction. 
As  many  social  allowances  were  made  for  the  young 
man  who  had  something  "  on  "  as  liberties  were  granted 
to  properly  affianced  couples  who  had  got  their  certifi- 
cate that  it  would  "  do."  Percy  Briggs  would  have 
gone  off  alone,  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and 
cheerfully  whistling,  at  the  least  hint  that  John  Willie 
had  something  "  on."  .  .  .  But  this  that  had  come  so 
suddenly  and  overmasteringly  over  John  Willie  was  a 
different  thing  altogether.  Here  was  not  somebody  who 
played  a  game  of  which  the  rules  and  forfeits  were 
known.  That  game,  under  one  veiling  or  another,  might 
form  the  staple  of  the  Lunas'  Drawing-room  Enter- 
tainment at  the  Palace,  or  of  the  songs  of  Miss  Sal 
Volatile  in  the  Pavilion  on  the  Pier;  but  Ynys  had  not 
even  known  what  she  had  turned  her  back  on  when  she 
had  stood  under  the  raspberry-coloured  light,  looking 
out  at  the  gathering  darkness  of  sky  and  the  still  linger- 


DELY.N  291 

ing  gleam  on  the  sea.  Warned  probably,  not  by  hear- 
ing and  sight;  but  by  some  apprehension  more  sensitive 
still,  she  had  stayed  to  see  that  orange  rising,  and  then, 
before  it  had  become  a  setting  again,  had  been  far  on 
the  road  to  Delyn.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  John  Willie  sat  up  and  shook  the  reins. 

"  No,  damn  it,"  he  said. 

He  began  to  bowl  more  briskly  along  the  hilly  lanes. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  he  reached  the  quarry, 
and  then  for  a  time  he  had  to  go  carefully  down  the 
by-lane  that  the  stone-carts  had  deeply  scored.  But  on 
the  Forth  ISTeigr  road  he  whipped  up  again.  Hearing 
a  sound  behind  him,  he  drew  in ;  and  when  there  had 
passed  him  a  great  brake  hung  all  over  with  Chinese 
lanterns  and  full  of  people  singing,  the  spell  of  silence 
under  which  he  had  lain  all  day  was  broken.  There- 
after sound  merely  succeeded  sound.  As  he  took  the 
railway  bridge,  a  "  special "  roared  past  below,  carry- 
ing more  people  to  Llanyglo;  and  before  its  red  tail- 
lights  had  mingled  with  the  other  rubies  and  emeralds 
of  the  line  he  had  come  upon  the  first  couple  turning 
at  the  limit  of  their  walk.  Then  came  a  large  board 
with  "  Imperial  Hotel "  on  it,  then  a  new  horse-trough ; 
then  benches,  then  walls  with  placards  on  them.  A 
mile  ahead  lay  the  golden  corona  of  the  town.  This  be- 
gan to  break  up  into  single  lights  and  groups  of  lights, 
and  then,  at  a  turn,  he  saw  the  Wheel  and  the  jewelled 
finger  of  the  Pier.  He  could  hear  the  noise,  an  indis- 
tinguishable something  in  the  air  that  was  not  the  wind 
and  not  the  sound  of  the  sea ;  and  then  at  the  first  road- 
side lamp  it  seemed  suddenly  to  become  night.  More 
slowly  he  rounded  Pritchard's  Corner ;  at  the  tram  term- 
inus the  belated  shopkeepers  made  a  press  about  the 


292  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Promenade-Pontnewydd  Street  car;  and  from  the  open 
doors  of  the  "  Tudor  Arms  "  was  wafted  the  smell  of 
beer. 

Delyn  and  Glyn  lago  were  part  of  the  night  behind 
him. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  drive  through  the  crowd  that 
suddenly  thickened  about  the  middle  of  Pontnewydd 
Street,  where  half  the  road  was  being  taken  up.  One 
of  the  "  Imperial "  ostlers  took  the  horse's  head,  said 
"  All  right,  Mr.  Garden,"  and  John  Willie  descended 
and  walked.  On  the  balconies  of  the  "  Grand  "  and 
"  Imperial,"  people  stood  and  watched  the  stream  that 
descended  to  the  Front.  Prom  the  Kursaal  Gardens 
came  a  noise  that  presently  the  ear  ceased  to  hear,  so 
steady  and  monotonous  was  it.  Then,  walking  in  the 
wake  of  a  tram  that  moved  slowly  forward  among  the 
street  barriers  with  an  incessant  clanging  of  its  bell, 
John  Willie  reached  the  Promenade. 

It  was  thrice  the  width  of  Pontnewydd  Street,  and 
so  there  was  more  room ;  but  for  all  that  it  was  difficult 
to  walk  at  more  than  the  general  pace.  This,  neverthe- 
less, football-packs  of  young  men  attempted  from  time 
to  time  to  do,  breaking  their  way  through.  They  played 
mouth-organs,  and  at  moments,  apparently  without  plan 
or  premeditation,  suddenly  formed  into  rings,  feet  pat- 
tering in  clog-steps,  eyes  fixedly  on  those  same  feet, 
their  backs  a  fence  to  hold  back  the  spectators,  while  in 
the  middle  a  couple  of  young  men  or  a  young  man  and 
a  young  woman  danced.  Then,  as  suddenly  as  they  had 
stopped,  they  were  off  again,  arms  linked  in  arms  or 
locked  about  the  waist  in  front,  each  figure  a  vertebra 
of  a  many-jointed  onward-rushing  snake.  Under  the 
Promenade  lamps  they  advanced,  everybody  else  yield- 
ing place  as  they  came.  The  little  rail-enclosed  plots 


DELYN  293 

that  lay  between  the  pavements  and  the  hotels  were 
magpied  with  torn  paper  and  strown  with  lying  figures. 
They  lay  there,  in  meaningless  embrace,  moaning  long 
harmonies  in  thirds,  hats  decorated  with  penny  gauds, 
eating  nuts  and  "  rock  "  and  chocolate,  hardly  moving 
when  passers-by  all  but  strode  over  them.  Probably 
they  were  discussing  nothing  more  than  "  So  I  said  to 

her,  straight  to  her  face "  or  the  conduct  of  the 

shed-overlooker  where  they  worked  throughout  the  year 
together  and  if  the  passers-by  almost  trod  on  them,  they, 
in  return,  half  absently  flirted  the  passing  ankles  with 
whisks  and  penny  canes. 

But  if  these  lay  like  bivalves,  torpid  and  content, 
another  and  more  active  element  had  awoke  in  the 
throng.  The  Alsatians,  had  they  required  it,  were  put 
into  countenance  now.  One  felt  that  they  veined  and 
threaded  the  mass  with  something  that  worked  as  quietly 
and  as  rapidly  as  yeast.  They  fed  on  it,  drawing 
from  it  at  last  an  open  and  confirmed  sanction  for  all 
those  things  they  would  not  have  dreamed  of  doing  at 
home.  One  met  them  here  and  there  in  couples,  or  in 
couples  of  couples  with  the  invisible  link  between  each 
pair  of  couples  drawing  ever  farther  and  farther  out,  the 
women  with  shawls  and  hoods  and  dominoes  over  their 
dinner  attire,  the  men  with  restless  eyes,  quick  to  show 
by  a  touch  of  hand  or  elbow  that  avoidance  was  desir- 
able or  a  glance  of  complicity  no  harm.  Lamps  showed 
these  gestures  of  understanding  between  those  who  could 
not  have  sworn  to  one  another's  names.  Of  the  two 
solitudes,  that  of  the  mountain-top  and  that  of  this  press 
where  ribs  could  hardly  lift,  they  sought  and  found  the 
second.  Perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  —  they  were  even 
grateful  to  those  others  who  moaned  those  gummy  thirds 
stretched  on  the  lamplit  grass.  .  .  . 


294  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

And  scarce  two  hundred  yards  away,  under  the  rail- 
ings of  the  sea-wall,  here  and  there  a  mask,  with  strag- 
gling breast  and  tightly  shut  eyes  and  writhing  lips, 
prayed.  .  .  . 

As  John  Willie  pushed  at  the  garden  gate,  the  door  at 
the  other  end  of  the  path  opened  and  closed  again  behind 
Minetta  and  June.  He  met  them  in  the  middle  of  the 
path  and  asked  them  where  they  were  going.  When 
they  said  they  were  only  going  for  a  stroll  he  ordered 
them  back.  Minetta's  "  Oh  —  how  you  startled  us !  — 
why,  we  didn't  know  you  were  coming  back "  sug- 
gested that  she  thought  her  brother  might  have  spoken 
in  another  tone;  but  John  Willie  was  not  thinking  of 
tones.  He  was  thinking  that  perhaps  after  all  he  had  no 
business  to  be  spending  days  up  Delyn  just  at  present. 
A  stroll  with  him  to  take  care  of  them  —  well  and  good ; 
but  not  two  girls  alone.  .  .  .  He  said  so,  rather  curtly, 
in  the  dining-room  as  Minetta  got  him  some  supper ;  but 
Minetta  made  no  reply.  Again  she  was  thinking  that 
June  was  a  very  nice  girl,  but  it  was  odd  that  she  should 
twice  have  brought  her  brother  back  from  his  fishing 
like  this. 

John  Willie,  eating  his  supper  almost  savagely,  had 
some  ado  to  reply  politely  to  June's  rills  of  pretty  speech. 
He  wondered  now  why  she  should  talk  when  she  had 
nothing  whatever  to  say.  Only  her  tongue  wagged,  and 
he  hardly  heard  his  own  tongue  wagging  in  reply.  This 
was  not  speech ;  this  was  not  language !  .  .  .  "  Not  if  I 
know  it,"  he  found  himself  suddenly  thinking,  as  June 
asked  him  whether  the  Water  Scheme  had  spoiled  Delyn 
much,  and  said  that  she  would  like  to  go  and  see.  But 
Minetta  said  little.  She  only  asked  John  Willie  one 
direct  question.  This  was,  Whether  he  had  come  back 
for  good  now.  He  replied  that  he  didn't  know,  and 


DELYN  295 

added  some  futility  about  fishing-weather  and  the  differ- 
ence a  night  sometimes  made. 

Minetta  thought  that  the  only  extraordinary  thing 
about  his  reappearance  was  that  he  should  have  troubled 
to  go  away  at  all. 

June  had  one  piece  of  information  to  give  him,  how- 
ever. It  was  two  days  old,  she  said,  but  there  —  if  John 
Willie  would  take  himself  off  on  his  unsociable  excur- 
sions like  this  he  must  expect  to  be  a  bit  out  of  things. 
But  she  would  forgive  him,  and  tell  him. —  Ned  Kerr 
was  dead.  It  seemed  (June  said)  that  he  had  once 
given  somebody  in  Forth  Neigr  a  canary,  and  reports 
had  reached  him  that  the  canary  was  not  doing  very  well 
—  had  the  pip  or  the  croup  or  whatever  it  was  canaries 
did  have.  He  had  worried  a  lot  about  the  canary  (June 
said),  and,  a  week  before,  had  been  to  Forth  Neigr  to 
see  it.  He  had  had  a  cold  or  something  himself,  June 
didn't  know  what ;  anyway,  he  had  come  back  from  see- 
ing the  canary  and  the  next  day  hadn't  got  up.  So 
his  brother  had  sent  for  a  doctor,  and  of  course  had  told 
the  doctor  all  about  it  —  Ned,  the  canary,  and  all  the 
lot.  The  doctor  had  said  that  lie  could  see  nothing  the 
matter  with  Ned  (which  was  more  than  some  of  them 
admitted,  going  on  sending  bottles  of  coloured  water 
and  so  on  and  then  a  bill  coming  in  for  pounds  and 
pounds),  but  Ned  hadn't  said  anything  at  all  —  he'd 
just  died  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  might  just 
as  well  have  had  something  the  matter  with  him,  June 
said.  And  all  about  a  stupid  canary ! 

Soon  after  that  John  Willie  told  them  it  was  time  they 
went  to  bed.  He  followed  them  upstairs  himself  a  few 
minutes  later. 

But  it  was  long  before  he  slept.  Perhaps  he  knew 
already  in  his  heart  that  if  he  really  meant  that  "  Damn 


296  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

it,  no  "  he  might  as  well  stay  at  home  now  instead  of 
leaving  June  and  Minetta  alone  in  the  house.  And  he 
had  meant  it.  He  vowed  he  meant  it  still.  The  rusty 
light  on  his  ceiling,  cast  from  the  corona  outside,  did  not 
prevent  his  seeing  the  hut  again  —  Glyn  lago  —  the 
black-dressed  gillie  who  had  tossed  the  snail-shells  into 
the  water ;  nor  did  the  faint  and  harsh  and  ceaseless  noise 
outside  drown  that  powerful  and  wordless  eloquence  that 
he  had  heard  with  some  faculty  other  than  his  bodily 
hearing.  .  .  .  Then  the  sounds  grew  thinner,  yet  louder 
also;  fewer,  but  clearer  in  the  growing  silence  of  the 
night.  He  heard  a  long-drawn  strain  of  tipsy  song,  the 
tinny  thread  of  sound  of  a  mouth-organ,  and  then  a 
clock  striking  three.  .  .  . 

But  he  must  go  up  to  Delyn  on  the  morrow.  It  would 
be  a  rotten  thing  to  tell  a  girl  to  be  sure  to  be  there  and 
then  not  to  turn  up  himself. 

And  he  would  take  her  that  lock  and  key. 


IV 

AN   ORDINARY   YOUNG   MAN 

HE  began  to  spend  his  days  up  Delyn  and  his  nights 
at  Llanyglo.  To  avoid  the  shaly  spur,  he  pulled 
across  in  the  boat  each  morning  from  the  beaching-place 
near  the  hut  to  the  foot  of  Glyn  lago,  and  she  had  his 
breakfast  ready  for  him  when  he  arrived,  which  was 
between  half -past  ten  and  eleven  o'clock.  As  if  his  sug- 
gestion had  been  a  command,  she  had  made  her  little  en- 
campment up  the  Glyn,  fetching  dry  sticks  from  up  the 
steep  wood;  her  hat  and  her  box  only  remained  in  the 
locked  shed. 

He  did  not  cast  a  fly.  Minetta  began  to  ask  him,  when 
he  returned  at  night,  first  what  sport  he  had  had,  and 
then  why  he  always  chose  to  fish  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Then  one  night  he  returned  to  find  his  sister  showing 
June  her  sketches.  For  some  minutes  he  affected  not  to 
be  interested;  then,  with  a  highly  elaborate  yawn,  he 
said,  "  Oh,  I  say,  Min  —  what  became  of  that  sketch 
you  once  made  of  that  gipsy  kid  —  you  remember  —  the 
one  mother  once  took  in  with  a  cut  foot  ?  —  Best  thing 
she  ever  did,"  he  added  carelessly  to  June. 

"  Oh,  it  got  shoved  away  somewhere.  Why  ?  "  said 
Minetta;  but  there  was  a  little  quick  dropping  look  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Nothing.  I  just  happened  to  remember  it.  It  was 
better  than  some  of  these." 

The  next  morning  the  sketch,  unearthed  from  some 
297 


298  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

dusty  heap  or  other,  was  on  his  plate  when  he  came  down 
to  breakfadt.  Presently  June  and  Minetta  also  came 
down.  By  that  time  he  was  able  to  say,  quite  com- 
posedly, "  Oh,  I  see  you  found  that  thing.  That's  the 
sketch  I  was  speaking  of,  June " 

But  he  wondered  whether  Minetta  also  could  by  any 
chance  have  seen  Ynys  on  that,  her  single  night  in 
Llanyglo. 

One  rapidly  advancing  trouble  was  on  his  mind.  He 
had  not  spoken  to  Ynys  of  the  passing  of  her  holiday, 
but  he  himself  could  almost  hear  its  seconds  ticking 
away.  Soon  two  days  only  remained ;  the  morrow,  when 
he  would  see  her  on  Delyn  again,  would  be  the  eve 
of  her  departure.  She  had  told  him  that  she  had  taken 
a  return  ticket;  already  he  seemed  to  hear  the  whistle 
of  the  train  by  which  it  was  available.  She  could  take 
that  train  either  at  Llanyglo  or  at  Forth  E"eigr. 

On  the  morning  of  her  last  whole  day  he  ascended  the 
Glyn  and  found,  as  usual,  his  trout  cooked  for  him  and 
keeping  hot  between  two  plates.  He  ate  it  abstractedly. 
Again  Minetta  had  remarked  pointedly  on  his  lack  of 
fishing-luck,  but  it  was  not  that  that  was  troubling  him. 
He  was  wondering,  not  for  the  first  time,  what  explana- 
tion Ynys  gave  herself  of  his  untouched  rods  and  buckled 
fly-book,  and  whether  she  too  thought  it  unusual  that  he 
should  come  so  far  merely  to  lie  by  the  stream  with  her 
hour  after  hour,  or  else,  with  a  "  Shall  we  go  up  there  ?  " 
to  ascend  the  stream,  skirt  the  wood,  gain  the  open  moun- 
tain-side, and  toil  for  half  an  hour  to  the  summit.  He 
had  substituted  no  other  pretence  for  his  first  pretence 
of  fishing.  What  did  she  think  of  it  ?  Or  did  she  not 
think  of  it  at  all  ? 

Again  that  morning,  when  she  had  scoured  the  plates 
and  set  them  in  a  little  rocky  basin  by  the  quivering 


OKDINARY  YOUNG  MAN          299 

moss,  he  proposed  the  mountain  climb.  In  half  an  hour 
they  were  at  the  top.  It  was  a  plateau  of  volcanic  rock, 
with  scrubs  of  hazel,  and  bents  and  reeds  and  harebells 
ceaselessly  stroked  by  the  wind.  Behind  them,  as  they 
sat  down  under  a  rock,  only  Mynedd  Mawr  rose  higher 
than  they ;  below  them  Llyn  Delyn  lay  like  a  bit  of  grey 
looking-glass  set  in  its  little  mile-long  cleft.  They  had 
raised  other  bits  of  looking-glass,  too,  in  other  far-off 
clefts.  About  them  the  mountains  rolled  as  if  invisible 
giants  were  being  tossed  in  the  visible  blankets  of  the 
land.  On  the  left  only,  far  from  Llanyglo,  a  scratch  of 
silver  showed  that  the  sea  was  there. 

"  So  you're  off  to-morrow,"  he  said,  when  they  had 
lain  long.  He  did  not  hide  from  himself  the  ache  the 
words  caused  him. 

"  My  tick-ket  say  to-morrow,"  she  answered,  without 
emotion. 

He  muttered  something  foolish  about  an  extension. — 
"  But  I  suppose  they  wouldn't  keep  your  place  open,"  he 
answered  himself  hopelessly. 

Her  next  words  caused  him  a  marvellous  pang  of 
lightness  and  hope. 

"  I  think-k  I  not  go  back,"  she  said,  the  seaweed  eyes 
looking  at  that  far-off  silver  scratch  that  was  the  sea. 

Why  did  that  pang  at  which  he  had  winced  instantly 
become  another  pang,  at  which  he  winced  no  less? 
What  was  it  that  the  eyes  of  his  spirit  saw,  far,  far, 
farther  off  than  her  seaweed  ones  saw  the  sea?  Her 
decision  to  stay,  if  she  really  meant  that  she  would  stay, 
should  have  meant  the  continuance  of  his  happiness; 
what,  then,  should  change  it  into  something  like  an  un- 
happiness  and  a  fear  ? 

He  did  not  know.  He  was  only  an  ordinary  young 
man.  He  only  knew  that  over  that  moment,  which 


300  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

should  have  been  one  of  a  care  removed,  a  faint  shadow 
of  an  irremovable  care  already  impinged. 

He  had  sat  up,  and  was  looking  at  her. — "  You  mean 
—  that  you  won't  go  back  at  all  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Indeed  I  think  I  cannot  go  back,"  she  answered ; 
and  her  imperfect  speech  left  it  uncertain  whether  in- 
deed she  meant  that  she  was  still  unresolved,  or  whether 
to  her,  who  had  not  been  able  to  endure  a  night  in  Llany- 
glo,  a  return  to  Liverpool  would  be  more  than  she  could 
bear. 

"  But  —  but  —  what  would  you  do  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  stay  here  lit-tle  longer,  and  then  I  get  wick-ker 
from  Dafydd  Dans,  and  mend  chairs,  like  my  mother." 

"  But  —  but "  It  was  so  new  to  his  experience. 

"  You  mean  you'd  just  go  from  place  to  place  ? " 

"  If  I  go  to  Liverpool  I  die,"  she  answered. 

John  Willie,  torturing  himself  over  this  long  after- 
wards, could  never  decide  what  that  subtle  yet  essential 
change  was  that  came  over  their  relationship  from  that 
moment.  It  was  quite  contrary  to  any  change  that 
might  have  been  expected.  But  for  that  sullen  "  No, 
damn  it,"  he  might  have  been  conscious  of  hardier  im- 
pulses as  the  term  of  her  holiday  approached ;  but  very 
curiously,  it  was  now  that  he  learned  that  it  had  no 
term  that  he  felt  those  hardier  stirrings.  It  was  ex- 
actly as  if,  with  little  time  to  spare,  he  had  wasted  time, 
and  now,  with  time  enough  before  him,  he  must  lose 
no  time.  Perhaps  it  was  also  that  growing  wonder 
what  she  must  think  of  fishing  expeditions  without  fish- 
ing. 

Or  —  or  —  could  it  be  that  that  sweet  clamour  of  her 
person  had  all  along  shown  patient  intention,  and  that 
he,  he  only,  had  been  dull  ?  .  .  . 

But,  more  quickly  than  he  had  thought  of  charging 


AN  ORDINARY  YOUNG  MAN          301 

her  with  this  —  (he  was  only  an  ordinary  young  man) 
—  he  had  to  acquit  her  again.  Certainly  she  had  not 
decided  not  to  leave  because,  staying,  she  saw  him  daily. 
She  merely  dreaded  towns  and  disliked  those  over-glor- 
ious waxen  cenotaphs  that  were  raised  to  the  memory 
of  the  humble  flowers  she  knew.  And  he  was  still  sure 
that  at  an  unguarded  movement  from  him  she  would 
have  fled  days  ago.  At  an  unguarded  movement  she 
would  fly  now.  He  had  what  he  had  only  on  the  con- 
dition that,  by  comparison  with  his  hunger,  it  was  and 
must  remain  nothing.  .  .  .  What  then?  Must  he 
come,  and  still  come,  until  the  wraiths  of  the  mists 
began  to  drive  over  a  dead  and  sodden  Delyn,  and  those 
tossing  blankets  of  the  mountains  became  hidden  in 
rain,  and  the  wood  of  Glyn  lago  became  brown  and 
thin,  and  the  stream  an  icy  torrent,  and  Llanyglo  itself 
as  empty  as  a  piece  of  old  honeycomb? 

He  did  not  know,  nor  did  he  know  how,  without  risk- 
ing all,  to  ascertain. 

Yet  know  he  must;  and  in  that  moment,  forgetting 
his  "  Damn  it,  no/'  he  contrived  as  if  by  accident  to 
touch  her  hand.  But  he  was  none  the  wiser  for  doing 
so.  As  his  hand  moved  with  intent,  hers  moved  inno- 
cently; her  fingers  began  to  pull  to  pieces  the  little 
yellow  flower  she  had  plucked ;  and  he  had  not  the  cour- 
age to  essay  it  twice. 

Nor  did  he,  his  breedings  notwithstanding,  find  that 
courage  again  that  day.  The  sun  crept  round;  tiny 
Llyn  Delyn  far  below  began  to  shine  with  an  amethyst 
light;  and  a  quietude  filled  the  heavens  above  and  the 
land  beneath,  so  that  the  rolling  mountains  seemed  to  be 
no  longer  the  tossing  of  giants,  but  rather  as  if  the 
giants,  their  tumbling  game  ended,  had  crept  under  the 
blankets  and  had  gathered  them  about  their  heads  and 


302  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

shoulders  for  the  night.  The  sea  and  sky  became  a 
shining  golden  bloom  of  air.  They  descended  to  the 
Glyn  again.  There  they  ate  a  packet  of  sandwiches 
which  John  Willie  had  brought,  and  then  he  rose 
and  stood,  irresolute.  He  must  go,  he  must  go.  ... 
She  was  setting  her  stick-heap  in  order ;  her  plain  black 
dress,  that  showed  off  Philip  Lacey's  superfatted 
flowers,  was  an  anomaly  by  the  side  of  the  Delyn 
twigs.  .  .  . 

"  Nos  da,"  he  said. 

If  the  face  she  lifted  had  not  been  glorious,  his 
thoughts  of  it  would  now  have  made  it  so. 

"  Nos  da,"  she  replied.  .  .  . 

If  he  still  said  "  No,"  it  was  not  with  the  sturdy 
expletive  now.  Chiefly  he  now  feared  to  risk  and  fail. 

He  left  abruptly. 

He  drove  to  Llanyglo  that  night  with  a  brassy  sunset 
on  his  left  that  sank  to  the  colours  of  dying  dahlias 
as  mile  succeeded  mile;  and  this  time  he  did  not  turn 
into  the  winding  lanes  that  led  to  the  quarry.  From 
the  main  road  to  which  he  kept  he  could  see  Llanyglo's 
corona  three  miles  away.  But  it  moved  him  now,  not 
to  the  revulsion  and  distaste  of  a  week  ago,  but  only 
to  a  careless  contempt.  Some  aroma  seemed  to  have 
passed  away  from  his  dreamings.  For  the  first  time, 
he  felt  himself  to  be  an  ordinary  young  man  returning 
from  the  mountains  where  he  had  something  "  on." 
This  new  slight  bitterness  extended  even  to  his  thoughts 
about  the  perspicacious  Minetta.  Be  hanged  to  Mi- 
netta.  If  Minetta  overstepped  the  mark  he  would  very 
quickly  tell  her  to  mind  her  own  business.  He  had  to 
pull  himself  out  of  his  moroseness  and  to  remind  him- 
self that  she  had  not  done  so  yet. 

As  he  passed  along  the  Pontnewydd  Street  he  did  not 


AN  ORDINARY  YOUNG  MAN          303 

at  first  notice  the  diminution  in  the  number  of  people 
usually  to  be  seen  there  at  that  hour.  Nor,  as  he  sank 
into  his  reverie  again,  did  it  immediately  strike  him 
that  the  greater  number  of  the  people  on  the  Prome- 
nade were  hurrying  in  one  direction  —  the  direction  of 
the  Trwyn.  But  he  entered  the  dining-room  at  home 
in  time  to  find  June  and  Minetta  scrambling  hastily 
through  their  supper.  All  the  dishes  had  been  laid 
on  the  table  at  once,  and  their  shawls  were  cast  in  read- 
iness over  the  backs  of  chairs.  This  time  he  deemed 
it  prudent  not  to  raise  any  opposition  to  their  plans, 
whatever  these  had  been.  Instead,  he  drew  up  his 
own  chair. 

"Off  out?"  he  remarked.  "Well,  I  hurried  back 
to  take  you  somewhere.  Just  let  me  swallow  some- 
thing, and  then  I'll  come  with  you.  What's  up  ?  " 

In  telling  him  what  was  "  up  "  Minetta  seemed  to 
make  the  most  of  some  advantage  she  apparently  fancied 
herself  to  possess.  If  he  had  only  glanced  at  the  news- 
papers, she  said,  instead  of  rushing  off  the  moment  he'd 
bolted  his  breakfast,  he'd  have  known  what  was  "  up." 
It  had  been  "  up  "  in  Llanyglo  that  afternoon  —  such 
a  crowd  as  never  was,  and  Eesaac  Oliver  was  to  preach 
in  the  Floral  Valley  again  that  night. 

"  Unless  he  changes  his  mind,"  Minetta  added.  "  Of 
course  it's  part  of  it  all  that  he  doesn't  make  arrange- 
ments. He'll  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  walk  and  begin  to 
preach  just  where  he  is,  and  then  at  other  times,  when 
they've  made  all  ready  for  him  and  everybody  waiting, 
he's  praying  in  his  bedroom  or  something  and  nobody 
dares  go  near  him.  So  they  never  really  know  till  he 
begins.  There's  only  one  thing  he  won't  do " 

"  Eesaac  Oliver  ? "  John  Willie  began,  puzzled. 
"Wait  a  minute " 


304  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Then,  as  Minetta  once  more  tossed  her  head,  he 
remembered.  Of  course.  The  Revival.  .  .  . 

And  what  he  did  not  remember  he  did  not,  in  the 
circumstances,  choose  to  ask  his  sister.  It  would  only 
be  giving  her  another  opportunity  to  comment  on  his 
remarkable  absences.  He  remembered  much.  He 
remembered  those  rumours  of  the  great  spiritual  thing 
that  had  broken  out  at  Aberystwith,  had  then  rolled 
tumultuously  up  the  coast  to  Barmouth,  and  thence  to 
Harlech  and  Portmadoc,  and  thence  up  the  sky-high 
steeps  of  Ffestiniog,  and  through  the  folds  of  those 
tossed  blankets  west  into  Lleyn.  He  remembered  — 
yes,  he  remembered  now  that  his  eyes  were  turned  out- 
ward from  himself  and  his  own  affairs  again  —  the 
preachings  of  Eesaac  Oliver  on  the  bare  mountain-sides, 
and  his  fastings  among  the  rocks,  and  his  baptisms  in 
rivers,  and  his  liftings-up  of  his  voice  on  the  outskirts 
of  towns  that  had  presently  emptied  to  hear  him,  and 
his  calling  on  folk  to  turn  from  the  wickedness  of  their 
ways  while  there  was  yet  time,  for  the  Day  of  Judgment 
was  at  hand.  He  remembered  these  things  because  at 
the  time  he  had  thought  them  rather  one  in  the  eye  for 
the  Howell  Gruffydds  and  the  John  Pritchards  who, 
when  the  Council  came  to  debate  such  delicate  but 
profitable  subjects  as  licencing  and  mixed  bathing,  had 
tactfully  allowed  themselves  to  be  represented  by  the 
soft  closing  of  the  door  behind  them.  He  knew  what 
that  interrupted  sentence  of  Minetta's  meant,  "  There's 

only  one  thing  he  won't  do "  The  only  thing  that 

Eesaac  Oliver  would  not  do  was  to  preach  within  the 
stone  walls  of  their  new  Chapels.  He  held  these  bazaar- 
supported  buildings  to  be  defiled,  their  Baptist  temples 
places  out  of  which  the  traffickers  in  money  and  doves 
must  be  driven  with  scourges.  It  mattered  not  that 


AN  OKDINARY  YOUNG  MAN          305 

John  Pritchard  was  a  pillar,  Howell  his  own  father. 

"  He  that  loveth  father  and  mother  more  than  Me " 

He  would  preach  as  the  mighty  Wesley  preached,  from 
wall-tops,  from  the  boulders  of  the  stony  places,  from 
the  wheelbarrow,  from  the  milking-stool,  from  the  sad- 
dle. He  would  journey  and  preach,  and  journey  and 
preach  again,  four,  six  times  a  day.  There  was  a  Door 
which,  entering  by  it,  gave  his  instant  and  flaming 
Theme  —  the  Door  open  to  Llanyglo  itself  unless  it 
would  sink,  it  and  its  Kursaals  and  its  Big  Wheels,  its 
Lunas'  Entertainments  and  its  bivalves  lying  under  the 
lighted  lamps  on  the  public  grass-plots,  its  Alsatians  and 
its  greedy  Chapel-goers,  its  harlotry  and  its  cupidity 
and  its  bright  sin  and  its  blasphemy  of  the  Name,  into 
the  pit  where  it  must  be  destroyed. 

"  Oh,  do  hurry  up !  "  said  Minetta  impatiently.  .  .  . 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  hastening  along  the  half- 
empty  Promenade. 

The  Floral  Valley  was  no  longer  as  it  had  been  when 
Philip  Lacey  had  plotted  it  out  so  neatly  with  his  pair 
of  compasses  and  coloured  it  with  his  geranium  and 
lobelia  and  golden  feather.  At  its  upper  end,  a  Switch- 
back now  humped  itself  like  a  multiple  dromedary,  and 
clear  across  it,  from  a  staging  on  one  side  to  a  staging 
on  the  other,  was  swung  the  cabled  apparatus  known 
as  an  Aerial  Flight.  Philip's  bandstand  still  occupied 
the  middle,  but  the  rest,  save  for  a  few  outlying  dusty 
beds,  was  as  barren  as  a  gravel  playground.  The  Valley 
had  held  five  thousand  people  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Brass  Band  Contest ;  that  night  it  held  and  overflowed 
with  thrice  five  thousand.  Half-way  up  the  ascending 
path  that  led  to  it  John  Willie  Garden  saw  that  there 
was  no  approach  from  that  quarter;  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  take  to  the  slippery  grass  and  the  darkness, 


306  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

avoiding  the  bivalves  open  and  the  bivalves  shut,  and 
struggling  as  best  they  could  to  the  crest.  There,  with 
an  arm  about  each  of  them,  he  led  them  through  the 
slowly  moving  outer  circle  of  people  who  struck  matches 
and  laughed  and  occasionally  craned  their  necks 
forward  to  look  over  the  dense  mass  in  front.  By  de- 
grees they  gained  the  ring  where,  if  little  was  to  be 
seen,  a  word  now  and  then  could  be  heard;  and  there- 
after, by  losing  no  chance  of  wriggling  forward,  they 
reached  a  point  from  which  they  could  see  the  band- 
stand. 

A  ladder  ran  up  to  its  roof,  and  up  this  ladder  Eesaac 
Oliver  and  two  other  men  had  climbed.  The  bight  of 
a  rope  had  been  passed  about  Eesaac  Oliver's  body,  its 
ends  running  round  the  gilded  spike  that  crowned  the 
flat  eight-sided  pyramid;  and  the  men  who  crouched 
on  the  slope  varied  the  tether  as  Eesaac  Oliver  moved 
this  way  and  that  round  the  octagonal  gutter.  The 
trapeze  of  the  Flight  hung  motionless  in  the  air  above 
him;  the  shrieking  Switchback  had  stopped;  and  the 
slight  white  figure,  so  precariously  perched,  turned  to 
all  sides  of  the  vast  speckled  bowl  about  him. 

"  See  who  that  is,  at  the  right  hand  rope  ? "  John 
Willie  whispered  to  June.  He  still  had  an  arm  about 
either  of  their  waists,  and  he  fancied  that  June  pressed 
a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  No.     Who  ?  "  she  whispered  back. 

"  Tudor  Williams.  Expect  he  couldn't  get  out  of  it. 
He  made  a  speech  the  other  day,  all  about  Young 
Wales,  a  regular  dead  set  at  them,  and  he'll  sweep  the 
poll  after  this.  I  don't  know  who  the  other  is. — 
Listen,  he's  turning  this  way  now " 

Eesaac  Oliver's  voice  came  across  the  packed  still 
basin. 


AN  OKDINAKY  YOUNG  MAN          307 

"  Cry  aloud  —  spare  not  —  lift  up  your  voice  like  a 
trumppp-pet !  I  say  to  you  young  men,  and  I  say  to 
you  young  women,  that  this  cit-ty  by  the  sea  shall  not  be 
spared,  no,  no  more  than  the  cit-ties  of  the  plain  were 
spared!  It  smells  of  corrupp-tion ;  it  is  an  offence  in 
the  nostrils  of  God !  There  is  more  sin  packed  into  it 
than  there  is  drops  of  blood  in  your  bodies,  and  more 
wick-kedness,  and  more  fornication,  and  more  irreligion. 
And  those  who  should  help,  do  they  help  ?  Indeed  they 
do  not !  They  fill  their  pock-kets  instead !  I  tell  them, 
their  own  souls  go,  perhaps  this  night,  into  the  pock-kets 
of  Hell!  Aw-w-w,  their  bazaars  prof-fit  them  lit-tle 
there !  Their  new  Chap-pils  prof-fit  them  lit-tle  there ! 
Their  funds,  and  their  balance-sheets,  and  their  founda- 
tion-stones with  their  names  on  them,  prof-fit  them  lit- 
tle there !  —  But  I  say  to  you  young  men,  and  you  young 
women,  that  the  Wa-ter  of  Life  is  free.  Come  now, 
come  now !  Do  not  say,  '  I  will  sin  one  more  sin  and 
then  repent ' —  perhaps  you  be  taken  away  before  that 
sin  iss  commit-ted " 

He  turned  again,  and  his  voice  became  less  clear. 

Perhaps  John  Willie  and  his  charges  were  well  where 
they  were,  high  on  the  rim  of  the  basin.  Whether  with 
the  pressure  of  those  behind,  or  with  the  swelling  of 
their  own  emotion,  many  below  were  moaning  softly, 
and  one  or  two  small  and  hushed  commotions  seemed  to 
be  centres  of  fainting.  The  inner  ring,  close  to  the 
bandstand,  was  hatless ;  the  belt  above  them  was  packed 
so  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  remove  a  hat ; 
and  always  about  the  uppermost  circle  matches  twinkled 
in  and  out.  Again  Eesaac  Oliver's  voice  was  heard, 
as  if  borne  upon  a  wind : 

" — he  that  loveth  father  and  mother  more  than 
Me " 


308  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"  Is  his  father  here  ? "  June  whispered  to  John 
WiUie.  .  .  . 

Howell  was  at  his  own  home,  surrounded  by  sympa- 
thetic neighbours.  Sunk  into  his  arm-chair,  he  sobbed. 
Big  John  Pritchard  tried  to  console  him,  but  he  was 
inconsolable.  He  shook  with  his  emotion. 

"  My  own  fless  and  blood !  "  he  sobbed.  "  To  turn 
from  his  parents,  that  fed  him,  and  clothed  him,  and 
sent  him  to  the  Coll-idge,  and  gave  him  allowance  of 
twen-ty-six  pounds  a  quarter,  and  bring  him  up  in  the 
fear  of  God !  Oh,  oh !  —  John  Pritchard,  give  me  a 
drink  of  water  if  you  please. —  And  to  call  his  father 
a-nd  mother  sinful  pip-pie!  Indeed,  Hugh  Morgan, 
you  are  happy  you  have  no  children !  They  know  bet- 
ter than  you  always;  indeed  the  'orld  go  on  at  a  great 
rate,  we  get  so  wise !  And  the  Chap-els  burdened  with 
debt !  There  is  half  a  dozen  Chap-els  for  him  to  preach 
in,  but  he  say  the  highways  and  the  hedges  is  his  Chap- 
pil!  .  .  .  Look  you,  he  not  even  come  home.  I  meet 
him  in  the  street,  I,  his  father;  and  I  say  to  him, 
'  Eesaac  Oliver,'  I  say,  '  if  you  will  not  preach  in  the 
Chap-pils,  then  you  preach  in  that  field  on  the  Sarn 
road ;  you  get  crowds  of  pip-pie ;  it  is  a  big  field,  and  will 
hold  crowds  of  pip-pie.'  But  he  turn  away,  indeed  he 
turn  his  back  on  his  own  father !  .  .  .  Look  you :  If  he 
preached  in  that  field,  they  find  their  way  to  that  field, 
look  you,  all  those  pip-pie  —  they  learn  the  way  to  that 
field  as  well  as  they  learn  the  way  to  the  sta-tion  —  and 
the  Chap-el  buy  it  cheap  —  oh,  oh!  ...  By  and  by 
that  field  be  worth  ten  bazaars  —  oh,  oh !  ...  Blod- 
wen,  if  the  gas  is  lighted  upstairs  I  think  I  go  to  bed  — • 
the  things  that  were  good  enough  for  his  father  and 


309 

mother  are  not  good  enough  for  him  —  this  is  a  heavy 

day " 

John  Pritchard  and  Hugh  Morgan  helped  him  up  the 
stairs  to  bed. 

June,  Minetta,  and  John  Willie  left  the  valley  before 
Eesaac  Oliver  descended  from  the  bandstand.  As  they 
walked  along  the  now  rather  more  crowded  Promenade 
Minetta  seemed  to  be  in  livelier  spirits;  she  chattered 
with  June ;  but  John  Willie  was  morose  again.  Again 
he  was  wondering  what  would  have  happened  had  Ynys 
not  chanced  to  pick  a  flower  at  the  moment  when  his 
hand  had  moved  imperceptibly  towards  hers.  He  saw 
her  again,  bending  over  the  stick-heap  and  looking  up 
as  she  gave  him  that  expressionless  "  JSTos  da."  By  this 
time  she  was  probably  asleep,  asleep  far  away  up  that 
Glyn,  with  the  deep  plunge  of  the  fall  for  her  lullaby, 
the  stars  for  her  night-lights,  and  the  sun  over  the  wood- 
edge  for  her  alarum  in  the  morning.  Before  the  noises 
of  Llanyglo  should  awaken  him,  she  would  be  lying  flat 
on  the  bank,  taking  trout  for  his  breakfast. 

And,  again  and  ever  again,  he  wondered  whether^ 
had  that  attempted  touch  of  his  not  miscarried,  she 
would  have  been  off  as  the  trout  would  have  been  off 
at  the  falling  of  her  shadow  on  the  water.  .  .  . 

For  one  moment,  just  before  he  went  to  sleep,  he 
seemed  to  hear  Eesaac  Oliver's  voice  again : 

"  Do  not  say,  '  I  will  sin  one  more  sin  and  then 
repent ' —  perhaps  you  will  be  taken  away  before  that 
sin  is  committed " 

Then  he  slept,  brokenly,  waking  at  intervals  to  mutter 

"  Damn  it "  and  to  think  of  her  again  where  she 

lay,  far  up  Glyn  lago. 


V 

THE   DWELLING   OF   A   NIGHT 

JOHN"  WILLIE  began  to  spend  his  days  up  Delyn 
and  his  nights  elsewhere  than  at  Llanyglo.  He 
too  passed  them  under  the  night-lights  of  the  stars  — 
for  if  she  could  go  to  bed  by  those  candles,  so  could  he. 
On  the  first  night  on  which  he  did  not  return  to  Llany- 
glo they  peeped  down  on  him  where  he  lay,  gazing  at 
them,  a  mile  and  more  over  the  head  of  Delyn,  to  the 
summit  of  which  he  had  reascended  after  bidding  her 
"  K~os  da  "  in  the  Glyn.  On  the  second  night  he  put 
another  mile  between  herself  and  him,  bathing  in  the 
morning  in  a  brook  the  chilliness  of  which  only  a  little 
refreshed  him  after  his  night's  tossing;  he  slept  for 
three  hours  that  afternoon,  with  her  keeping  watch  by 
his  side.  And  on  the  third  night  he  lay  among  the 
fern,  in  her  own  old  place  behind  Sharpe's  hut.  She 
did  not  know  that  he  did  not  return  each  night  to  that 
dusty  town  by  the  sea. 

And  now  once  again  he  was  muttering  to  himself, 
fiercely  and  frequently,  "  JSTo  —  no " 

June's  stay  began  to  draw  to  a  close.  Minetta  sus- 
pected her  of  moping  for  John  Willie,  and  told  her  that 
he  often  disappeared  for  days  at  a  time  like  that. 
Sometimes,  she  added,  he  called  it  fishing. 

"  But  he'd  be  fearfully  annoyed  if  we  went  to  look 
for  him,"  she  said ;  and  she  turned  away  and  smiled. 

She  smiled  again  when  one  morning  June  had  a  letter 

from  Wygelia,  with  a  postscript  for  herself.     "  A  bit  of 

310 


THE  DWELLING  OF  A  NIGHT         311 

gossip  for  Minetta"  the  postscript  ran.  "  Ask  her  if 
she  remembers  a  girl  from  Llanyglo  father  took  into  one 
of  his  shops.  He's  thinking  of  sending  out  search- 
parties  for  her.  She  went  off  for  a  holiday,  and  hasn't 

turned  up  again "  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

And  so  it  was  that  John  Willie,  filled  now  with  one 
thought  only,  came  to  miss  quite  a  number  of  things 
that  went  down  into  the  history  of  Llanyglo.  He 
missed,  for  example,  those  first  days  of  Eevival  in 
which  the  town,  self-accused  of  sin,  strove  to  purify 
itself.  He  missed  that  storm  of  impassioned  evangel- 
icalism in  which  Eesaac  Oliver,  walking  one  day  on  the 
Forth  Neigr  road,  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  lane  that 
led  to  the  quarries,  suddenly  threw  up  his  hands,  broke 
forth,  and  presently  had  the  occupants  of  a  dozen  brakes 
and  wagonettes  listening  to  him  in  the  great  echoing 
excavation  of  the  quarry  itself.  He  missed,  too,  an  odd 
little  by-product  of  that  gale  of  spiritual  awakening  — 
the  black-faced  group  that  one  morning  made  its  appear- 
ance on  the  beach,  and  resembled  a  troupe  of  ordinary 
seaside  niggers  until  it  broke,  not  into  Plantation  Melo- 
dies, but  into  hymns,  one  of  which  had  a  catchy  pattef- 
ing  chorus  that  told  over  the  names  of  the  blest  ones 
the  redeemed  would  meet  in  Heaven : 

"  There'll  ~be  Timothy,  Philip  and  Andrew, 
Peter,  Paul  and  Barnabas, 
James  the  Great,  James  the  Less 
And  Bar-tholo-mew " 

He  missed  that  other  great  storm  of  groans  and  fervour, 
when  the  pale  young  regenerator,  mounting  the  railway 
embankment  from  a  low-lying  meadow  near  Forth 
JSTeigr,  began  to  preach  before  sunset,  preached  until 
the  stars  came  out,  and  then  sent  hysterical  young 


312  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

women  and  overstrung  young  men  home  in  couples 
along  the  benighted  lanes  together,  to  comfort  and  en- 
hearten  and  uplift  one  another  as  they  went.  .  .  .  And 
he  missed,  among  these  and  a  multitude  of  other  things, 
a  certain  rather  famous  exploit  of  his  compatriot, 
Tommy  Kerr. 

He  knew  how  Tommy  had  flouted  and  insulted  Llany- 
glo,  and  how  Llanyglo  in  return  had  long  been  looking 
for  signs  that  Tommy  was  drinking  himself  to  death. 
But  neither  John  Willie  Garden  nor  anybody  else  had 
thought  of  the  alternative  solution  of  the  inconvenience 
of  Tommy's  presence  in  Llanyglo.  This  was,  not  that 
Tommy  himself  should  fall  one  night  and  break  his 
neck,  but  that  something  should  happen  to  the  house 
that,  having  been  put  up  by  the  four  brothers  in  a  single 
night,  was  enjoyable  by  them  as  long  as  they  or  any 
of  them  should  remain  alive. 

During  Ned's  illness,  if  that  listless  state  in  which  he 
had  moved  between  the  accident  to  Harry  and  Sam  and 
the  death  of  the  canary  had  been  an  illness,  the  care  of 
the  Haf od  had  fallen  to  Tommy ;  and  that  was  as  much 
as  to  say  that  it  had  been  cared  for  very  little.  More- 
over, the  fabric  itself  was  perhaps  by  this  time  impaired. 
The  digging  of  the  foundations  of  the  hotels  on  either 
side  of  it  had  done  it  no  good,  and  the  constant  vibration 
of  the  Pontnewydd  Street  trams  had  done  it  even  less. 
On  a  certain  Sunday  morning,  some  weeks  before  the 
sickening  of  the  canary,  Tommy  had  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  make  a  thorough  examination  of  the  place, 
while  Ned  had  dozed  in  his  chair.  That  examination 
had  given  Tommy  a  bad  fright.  Mounting  a  short  lad- 
der and  looking  up  into  the  roof-space  above  the  single 
living-room,  he  had  found  the  loft  far  lighter  than  it 
ought  to  have  been ;  but  it  had  not  been  the  gap  in  the 


THE  DWELLING  OF  A  NIGHT         313 

roof  that  had  scared  him  so  badly.  It  had  been  what 
he  had  seen  through  the  gap  —  the  chimney-stack  all 
tottering,  hooped  out  on  one  side  like  a  barrel.  .  .  . 

With  boards  and  baulks,  an  old  pole-mast  and  other 
timbers  from  the  unsightly  little  backyard,  it  had  taken 
him  the  greater  part  of  the  day  to  shore  the  chimney 
up  again. 

Whew!  He  and  Ned  had  been  sleeping  under 
that! 

It  may  be  that  there  had  been  plotting  against 
Tommy,  too  —  or,  if  not  actually  plotting,  a  great  deal 
of  quiet  watching  to  see  what  would  happen,  backed  by 
a  powerful  desire  that  something  should  happen.  Both 
Howell  Gruffydd  and  John  Pritchard  were  on  the 
Roads  Committee,  and  —  well,  it  was  obvious  that 
Pontnewydd  Street  could  not  remain  unrepaired  merely 
because  these  Kerrs  happened  to  live  there.  Orders 
had  gone  forth  that  its  mains  were  to  be  seen  to,  pits 
had  been  dug  in  the  street  and  barriers  erected  round 
them,  and  red  flags  set  there  by  day  and  red  lanterns 
by  night. 

Nothing  had  happened. 

Then  the  excavations  had  been  filled  up  again,  and 
the  road-metal  carts  had  come.  The  surface  was  to  be 
tackled.  .  .  . 

So  it  had  been  that  John  Willie  Garden  returning  one 
night  from  Delyn,  had  seen  Dafydd  Dafis's  road-engine 
drawn  up  for  the  night  opposite  the  Imperial  Hotel. 

The  engine  had  remained  in  Pontnewydd  Street  ever 
since. 

It  shook  the  Hafod  as  if  it  had  been  brought  there 
expressly  for  its  destruction.  During  the  very  first 
hour  of  its  slow  and  ponderous  passing  backwards  and 
forwards,  Tommy's  newly  cobbled  chimney  had  given 


314:  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

a  not  very  loud  crack,  and,  like  a  heavy  sleeper,  had 
settled  down  into  a  more  comfortable  shape.  Tommy 
had  come  out,  and  had  hailed  the  man  who  walked  in 
front  of  the  machine  with  a  red  flag.  Nervously,  al- 
most politely,  he  had  asked  him  how  long  they  were 
likely  to  be.  The  man  had  replied  that  they  had  orders 
to  "  make  a  job  of  it."  Then  Tommy  had  seen  Dafydd 
Dafis's  face,  watching  him  from  the  cab.  .  .  .  Half  an 
hour  later  he  had  met  Howell  Gruffydd  in  the  Marine 
Arcade.  The*  Chairman  of  the  Council  had  stopped. 
He  had  patted  the  shoulder  of  the  common  enemy 
gently  with  his  hand,  and  his  smile  had  been  odiously 
affable. 

"  Well,  Thomas  Kerr,"  he  had  said,  "  how  are  you  ? 
I  hear  there  is  improvements  at  Plas  Kerr;  you  have 
a  grand  road  to  your  house  soon,  whatever!  I  think 
we  have  to  assess  you  higher.  How  are  you,  Thomas 
Kerr?" 

Kerr  had  hated  the  Welshman's  fine,  small,  regular 
teeth.  They  were  false,  but  by  no  means  the  falsest 
thing  about  his  mouth.  As  he  had  made  to  move  away 
Howell  had  continued. 

"  I  hope  Dafydd  Dafis  does  not  incommode  you  with 
the  road-engine,  Thomas  Kerr?  He  has  orders  not  to 
be  a  nuis-ance  to  the  town.  '  Drive  as  gently  as  you 
can,  Dafydd  Dafis '  is  his  orders.  .  .  .  You  are  off  to 
the  Marine  Hotel  now,  Thomas  Kerr  ?  Dear  me,  it  is 
a  curious  fas-cin-ation  such  places  have  for  some  pip- 
pie  !  Would  it  not  be  bet-ter  to  come  to  the  Chap-pel  on 
Sundays?  .  .  .  Thomas  Kerr."  (Tommy  had  been 
shuffling  miserably  away. )  "  Excuse  me,  Thomas 
Kerr,  but  you  lose  your  handkerchief  if  you  are  not 
careful !  " 

And  at  this  reminder  that  he  had  intended  to  button 


THE  DWELLING  OF  A  NIGHT         315 

up  his  pockets  in  the  presence  of  his  foe,  Tommy  had 
been  wellnigh  ready  to  weep. 

And  then  Ned  had  died.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  "  edge,"  or  vanity,  or  self- 
esteem,  or  conceit,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  about 
Tommy  Kerr.  He  knew  now  that  that  road-engine 
would  not  be  taken  off  as  long  as  his  crazy  house  stood, 
and  he  was  stung  and  mortified  that  a  few  beggarly 
Welshmen,  backed  by  a  pettifogging  Railway  Company 
or  two,  with  Kursaals  Limited,  a  miserable  District 
Council,  a  Pleasure  Boats'  Amalgamation,  a  few  Hotel 
Syndicates  and  other  such  trifles,  should  be  able  to  beat 
him.  He  felt  very  lonely  without  Ned.  He  would 
have  liked  to  see  Lancashire  again,  particularly  Roch- 
dale, his  own  town.  He  wanted  to  walk  its  hilly  streets, 
and  to  see  the  Asbestos  Factory  again,  and  Holling- 
worth  Lake.  He  would  almost  rather  be  found  dead 
there  than  continue  to  live  among  these  indigo  moun- 
tains and  pink  hotels  and  chrome-yellow  sands. 

And  so  he  set  about  his  exploit. 

At  the  very  outset  they  tried  once  more  to  baulk  him. 
For  the  thing  that  he  intended  to  do  certain  timbers 
were  necessary,  and  at  six  o'clock  one  night  he  passed, 
none  too  steadily,  to  a  timber-merchant's,  and  gave  an 
order  to  a  clerk.  The  clerk  smiled,  and  sent  for  his 
principal.  Kerr  pointed  to  various  pieces  in  the  yard. 
"  Ye  can  send  that  —  an'  that  —  an'  that  t'  other,"  he 
said  thickly ;  "  ye  can  get  'em  out  now  —  I'll  fetch  a 
cart."  Then,  looking  at  the  builder's  face,  he  saw  that 
he  too,  like  the  clerk,  was  smiling.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  need  of  words.  Howell  Gruffydd  had 
been  beforehand  with  him  again.  If  one  builder  re- 
fused to  sell  to  him,  so,  he  knew,  would  all  the  others. 
He  was  wasting  precious  time  with  builders. 


316  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

How  many  inns  he  had  been  to  that  day  he  could  not 
have  told,  but  he  now  felt  the  heart  in  him  again.  They 
thought  they  could  dish  Tommy  Kerr  like  that,  did 
they?  Well,  he  would  show  them.  .  .  .  He  lurched 
away  to  the  "  Lancashire  Rose,"  in  Gardd  Street,  and 
then  crossed  to  the  "  Trafford."  But  at  neither  of  them 
did  he  stay  very  long.  He  left  the  "  Trafford  "  at  a 
little  after  eight,  three  hours  before  he  needed  to  have 
done  so.  He  wanted  those  three  hours.  He  also 
wanted  all  the  hours  he  could  get  between  then  and  sun- 
rise. 

!Nb  sober  man  would  have  dreamed  of  attempting  it ; 
but  sobriety  and  large  deeds  do  not  always  go  hand  in 
hand.  Neither  do  large  deeds  and  very  clear  thinking 
—  which,  stout  hearts  being  commoner  than  unmuddled 
brains,  is  lucky  for  us.  Through  Kerr's  bemused  head 
ran  one  thought  and  one  thought  only,  namely,  that  the 
Hafod  had  been  built  by  himself  and  his  three  brothers 
in  a  night  —  built  in  a  night  —  built  in  a  night 

If  it  had  been  built  in  a  night  it  could  be  rebuilt  in  a 
night 

It  had  taken  four  of  them  to  build  it,  but  the  rebuild- 
ing ought  not  to  be  nearly  so  heavy  a  job 

He  would  show  them  he  did  not  come  from  Lan- 
cashire for  nothing! 

But  before  entering  his  dwelling  that  night  he 
committed  an  act  of  theft.  That  damned  road-engine 
had  again  been  left  drawn  up  opposite  the  Imperial 
Hotel,  and  Tommy,  fumbling  under  the  tarpaulin  that 
covered  it,  stole  something  from  the  cab.  He  chuckled 
as  he  seemed  to  see  again  Dafydd  Dafis's  cat-like  face 
looking  at  him  round  the  fly-wheel.  He'd  show  Dafydd 
Dans! 


THE  DWELLING  OF  A  NIGHT         317 

He  entered  his  house  and  locked  the  door  behind  him. 

He  had  formed  no  plan,  but  yet,  somehow,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  plan,  and  a  reasonably  clear  one. 
Where  it  had  come  from  he  did  not  know ;  it  was  as  if 
he  heard  again,  somewhere  in  the  air  quite  near,  the 
voices  of  his  brothers  again,  saying,  in  the  loved  Eatchet 
accents,  "  Never  heed  that,  Sam  —  here's  where  th? 
strain  comes  —  we'll  do  th'  paperin'  and  put  a  pot  o' 
geraniums  i'  th'  window  after."  He  saw  these  vital 
points  and  master-members  of  his  plan  as  if  they  had 
been  marked  in  his  mind  in  red.  He  had  not  to  stop 
to  reason  about  them.  He  knew  —  dead  Ned  seemed  to 
tell  him  —  that  the  wall  between  the  living-room  and 
the  scullery  might  stand.  He  knew  —  he  seemed  to 
have  it  from  Sam  —  that  the  whole  of  the  street-front- 
age was  sound.  The  ends,  near  the  two  hotels,  were 
the  danger-points;  most  perilous  of  all  was  the  main 
beam  under  the  lately  propped  chimney.  The  chimney 
must  be  taken  down  first  of  all.  "  To  lighten  th'  beam, 
ye  see/'  Harry's  voice  seemed  to  sound ;  "  nay,  donnot 
fiddle  wi'  it  —  shove  it  ower  into  th'  alley  —  we're 
pushed  for  time " 

So,  whether  you  call  it  drink,  or  whatever  you  call  it, 
Tommy  did  not  set  to  work  quite  unassisted. 

At  the  very  beginning  he  almost  came  to  grief.  This 
was  over  the  chimney,  that  essential  member  of  the 
dwelling  up  whose  throat  the  comfortable  smoke  had 
passed  on  that  far-off  morning  as  a  token  of  habitation 
before  the  eyes  of  astonished  little  Llanyglo.  He  had 
climbed  out  on  to  the  perilous  roof  and  had  begun  to 
"  study  "  how  best  to  take  it  down ;  then,  as  cautiously 
he  had  unlashed  and  removed  the  baulks  and  the  pole- 
mast,  the  chimney  had  suddenly  thrust  out  its  stomach 
at  him.  His  heart  gave  a  jump,  and  in  a  twink  he  had 


318  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

set  his  back  against  it,  grasping  a  rope  to  check  his 
heave.  .  .  .  But  the  chimney  would  neither  stand,  nor 
yet  fall  as  he  wished  it  to  fall,  over  the  end  of  the  Hafod 
into  the  side-alley.  It  wanted  to  fall  inwards,  over 
Tommy's  head.  He  thought  his  agonised  effort  would 
never  end.  .  .  .  But  end  it  did.  He  felt  the  release  of 
weight.  The  thing  hung  poised  for  a  moment,  and 
then.  .  .  . 

He  was  once  more  down  in  his  kitchen  before  the 
windows  which  had  been  flung  up  in  the  two  hotels  had 
closed  again.  No  doubt  they  had  been  waiting  for  days 
for  that  crash.  They  did  not  know  that  the  scandalous 
Tommy  himself  had  caused  it.  The  ghost  of  a 
malicious  smile  crossed  his  face.  "  Sucks,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  for  Gruffydd." 

Then,  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  he  fell  to  his  house- 
breaking. 

"  Kerr  ?  "  said  the  author  of  the  Sixpenny  Guide, 
when  asked  about  this.  "  I  suppose  you  mean  Tommy 
Kerr?  Yes,  I  remember  him. —  His  cottage?  That 
Hafod  Unos  place  ?  —  Yes,  it's  perfectly  true.  He  did 
pull  it  down  or  put  it  up  again  in  one  night,  or  at  any 
rate  something  like  it.  An  uncouth  little  animal  he 
was;  a  drunken  little  beast;  still,  he  did  this.  Made 
quite  a  job  of  it  too. —  How?  That  I  can't  tell  you. 
But  I  saw  the  place  the  next  morning,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  at  one  time  during  the  night  both  the  ends  and  half 
the  back  must  have  been  as  open  as  an  empty  rick-shed. 
Of  course  the  whole  thing  was  altogether  preposterous. 
Six  men's  work.  I  was  staying  a  little  farther  up  the 
road,  and  by  daybreak  there  must  have  been  a  thousand 
people  in  Pontnewydd  Street.  Nobody  lifted  a  finger. 
They  just  watched,  He  wasn't  to  be  seen  mostly;  he 


THE  DWELLING  OF  A  NIGHT         319 

was  busy  inside;  but  when  he  did  come  out  he  never 
turned  his  head. —  Sober  ?  Impossible  to  say.  And  of 
course  he  didn't  quite  finish  the  job.  But  you've  heard 
the  rest." 

The  rest  was  as  follows : 

By  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  Tommy  was  neither 
drunk  nor  sober.  He  was  a  will  and  a  piece  of  muscular 
apparatus,  the  two  things  quite  separate,  yet  working 
together  with  never  a  jerk  to  mar  the  harmony.  As  a 
worn-out  old  machine  will  continue  to  run  provided  it  is 
not  interrupted,  so  Kerr  worked,  in  a  state  to  which  the 
only  fatal  thing  would  have  been  to  stop.  The  Tommy 
Kerr  Llanyglo  knew  was  a  base  thing,  senseless  as  the 
lime  and  stone  through  which  his  chisel  drove  (with  a 
fearful  racket),  obstinate  as  the  beams  under  which  he 
hammered  his  wedges;  but  this  was  another  Tommy 
Kerr  —  somehow  the  name  yet  somehow  another  —  a 
Kerr  who  might  have  been  imagined  to  mutter,  as  he 
laboured,  that  it  was  a  gradely  night  for  a  titanic  act  — 
that  he  came  from  Lancashire,  where  men  did  impos- 
sible things  as  a  matter  of  course  —  and  that  if  any 
Welshman  would  pocket  his  pride  and  ask  him,  he  would 
pull  down  and  put  up  again  their  whole  blasted  flashy 
town  for  them  while  he  was  about  it. 

And  perhaps  he  was  not  really  patching  up  his  tot- 
tering cottage  at  all  that  night.  Perhaps  he  was  rather 
doing  one  of  those  useless  and  splendid  things  that  alone 
among  man's  contrivances  do  not  crumble  and  fall. 
Perhaps  he  was  doing  in  his  ruined  Hafod  pretty  much 
the  same  thing  that  Eesaac  Oliver  Gruffydd  did  from 
bandstands  and  railway  embankments  and  rocks  and 
bedroom  windows  —  setting  up  an  ideal,  and  bidding 
men  remember,  though  they  might  never  attain,  to  strive. 


320  MUSHROOM  TOWN" 

Or  perhaps  he  was  working  from  the  most  religious 
motive  known  to  man  —  to  please  himself,  trusting  that 
if  he  did  so  he  might  please  Something  greater  than  him- 
self. If  so,  his  idea  might  have  had  grandeur,  but  that 
grandeur  was  curiously  expressed.  For  he  did  not  cease 
to  grunt  from  time  to  time,  as  his  face  became  grimy 
and  then  washed  clean  again  with  perspiration: 
"  Damned  Treacle-tongue !  I'll  sew  my  pockets  up 
next  time!  Owd  false-teeth  —  their  road-engines  — 
him  an'  his  new  brolly ! " 

By  four  o'clock  twenty  road-engines  could  not  have 
shaken  down  the  beam  on  the  chimney  side  of  the 
house,  and  without  another  look  at  it  he  turned  to  the 
other  wall.  It  was  Ned's  remembered  voice  that  bade 
him  hasten.  As  he  tackled  the  second  beam  he  grew 
quite  chatty  with  Ned.  It  was  Ned  who  kept  him  to 
those  red-marked  crucial  points,  and  told  him  that  he 
needn't  bother  about  the  walls,  for  the  ceiling-sheets 
would  do  to  cram  into  the  interstices,  and  that,  if  he 
made  haste,  the  golden  days  would  come  again  when 
he  had  mocked  at  all  Welshmen,  and  had  had  on  the 
hip  the  Railway  Companies  and  Kursaals  and  Hotels 
and  Steamboats  that  had  done  their  utmost  to  get  rid 
of  him. 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  he  became  conscious  of 
other  whispers  than  Ned's.  At  last  he  had  seen  the 
crowd  gathered  in  Pontnewydd  Street.  But  by  this 
time  he  had  ripped  his  ceiling-cloth  down,  and  the  grey 
incoming  day  was  suddenly  darkened  again  as  he 
ploughed  across  the  talus  of  debris  and  made  a  wall  of 
cloth,  fastening  it  anywise  from  beam  to  beam.  Ned 
said  that  that  was  quite  good  enough.  You  never 
caught  wise  old  Ned  napping.  Tommy  Kerr  had  been 
very  fond  of  his  brother  Ned.  He  had  gone  ratting 


THE  DWELLING  OF  A  NIGHT         321 

with  him,  and  alder-cutting,  and  he  remembered  a 
whippet  Ned  had  once  had,  a  rare  dog  for  nipping  'em 
as  they  turned,  and  a  canary  too.  .  .  . 

Then  Tommy  Kerr's  brain,  which  for  more  than  seven 
hours  had  been  as  steady  as  a  sleeping  top,  gave  a  little 
wobble.  This  was  as  he  paused  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  of  his  incredible  house.  There  was  something  else 
he  had  to  do;  what  was  it?  ...  What  was  it,  now? 
.  .  .  He  knew  there  was  something  else  he  had  to 
do.  ... 

He  would  have  done  better  to  begin  his  work  all  over 
again  than  to  stop  and  think. 

What  ...  ah  yes,  he  remembered!  He  remem- 
bered and  chuckled.  Why,  he  had  been  on  the  point  of 
forgetting  the  cream  of  the  whole  joke ! 

He  stooped  by  the  rounded  grey  mound  of  lime  and 
plaster  that  represented  his  bed,  but  his  knees  gave,  and 
he  came  with  a  little  thump  to  the  floor.  But  he  rolled 
over  on  his  side,  and  his  fingers  found  what  they  sought, 
and  after  a  few  minutes  he  rose  again.  In  his  hand 
was  the  red  flag  he  had  stolen  from  the  cab  of  Dafydd 
Dafis's  road-engine.  That  was  to  go  up  where  v  his 
chimney  had  been,  that  chimney  that  had  emitted  that 
first  smoke  on  that  far-off  first  morning.  The  town, 
when  it  awoke,  must  on  no  account  miss  that.  Tommy 
Kerr  wanted  to  see  the  faces  of  Howell  Gruffydd,  John 
Pritchard,  Dafydd  Dafis  and  Co.  when  they  saw  that 


He  tottered  to  the  ladder  that  ran  up  into  the  loft. 

He  fell  twice  from  the  lower  rungs  of  it,  but  a  foot 
of  lime  made  his  fall  soft.  He  mounted  to  the  top, 
and  crawled  on  his  belly  across  the  open  rafters  of  the 
loft.  He  did  not  know  how  he  got  out  on  to  the  roof; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  lay  below  for  a  long  time,  gaz- 


322  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

ing  up  through  a  gap  at  the  paling  sky  and  wondering 
how  it  was  to  be  done,  and  then  miraculously  found 
himself  where  he  wished  to  be.  Then  he  got  on  his  feet. 

Then  he  saw  them,  the  people  in  the  street  below. 
He  had  again  forgotten  they  were  there.  So  much  the 
better;  they  should  see  him  do  it.  Then  he'd  give  a 
shout  that  should  wake  all  Wales,  and  —  and  —  by  that 
time  the  pubs  ought  to  be  opening.  .  .  . 

But  the  little  hand-staff  of  the  flag  was  not  long 
enough  to  please  him.  He  wanted  a  longer  one,  to  make 
more  of  a  show.  It  took  a  whole  tree  to  carry  the  flag 
over  the  Kursaal  Dancing  Rooms  there.  It  was  stupid 
of  Tommy  not  to  have  thought  of  that  —  not  to  have 
brought  one  up  from  below,  where  there  were  plenty  — 
yes,  plenty 

As  it  happened,  he  did  not  need  the  stick.  It  all 
came  about  very  softly  and  gently.  He  was  standing 
up,  again  looking  about  for  a  longer  stick,  when  once 
more  his  brain  gave  a  wobble.  The  watchers  below  saw 
him  lean,  as  formerly  his  chimney  had  leaned,  only 
now  Tommy  Kerr  leaned  the  other  way 

And  so  gently  did  he  come  over,  and  so  comparatively 
short  a  distance  had  he  to  fall,  that  you  would  have 
sworn  it  did  not  hurt  him  very  much.  He  stuck  to  the 
little  square  of  red  calico  at  the  end  of  the  short  staff ; 
it  was  still  in  his  hand  when  they  picked  him  up  from 
the  heap  of  chimney-bricks  that  choked  the  little  alley 
where  the  principal  entrance  to  the  Kursaal  Gardens 
now  is. 

Ancient  Mrs.  Pritchard,  when  she  heard  of  it,  baa-ed, 
and  said  that  folk  came  and  went  —  came  and 
went 


VI 

THE    GLTN 

FROM  sleeping  badly,  John  Willie  Garden  had 
passed  to  sleeping  hardly  at  all.  From  that  same 
fear  of  startling  her,  he  still  did  not  appear  in  the  Glyn 
much  before  his  accustomed  hour  (though  there  had 
been  times  without  number  when  he  had  resolved  other- 
wise) ;  instead,  he  wandered  about,  a  mile,  two  miles 
away,  sometimes  setting  himself  a'  distant  point  to  walk 
to,  on  his  return  from  which  it  would  surely  be  time  he 
was  seeking  her.  On  the  first  two  mornings  of  his  ab- 
sence from  home  he  had  not  shaved ;  then  he  had  decided 
that  that  would  never  do,  and  has  sent  somebody  from 
the  inn  below  to  fetch  him  a  bag.  With  the  bag  had 
come  a  short  note  from  Minetta.  It  had  merely  said 
that  June  was  leaving  on  the  following  Saturday,  and 
that  after  that  day  she  would  be  alone  in  the  house. 

He  now  wished  he  had  not  asked  Minetta  to  show 
June  that  sketch.  She  had  put  it  on  his  breakfast- 
plate  for  all  the  world  as  if  lie  had  wished  to  see  it, 
instead  of  merely  to  show  June  how  much  better  it 
was  than  the  others.  He  didn't  think  that  Minetta 
cared  in  the  least  how  he  spent  his  time,  but  she  was 
so  sharp,  and  queer  as  well  as  sharp.  She  watched 
things  without  taking  any  part  in  them.  The  more 
self-absorbed  the  actors  showed  themselves,  the  more 
keenly  interested  Minetta  became.  In  many  respects 
she  took  after  her  father.  Edward  Garden  too  had 

323 


324  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

that  habit  of  poking  and  prying  into  people's  tastes  and 
enjoyments  and  passions  and  desires,  noting  and  under- 
standing them  while  remaining  himself  inaccessible  to 
such  weaknesses.  It  wouldn't  greatly  have  surprised 
John  Willie  to  learn  that  Minetta  guessed  what  he  was 
about  up  Delyn. 

The  curious  thing  was  that,  if  that  were  so,  he  didn't 
think  that  Minetta  would  disapprove.  She  would  look 
as  it  were  over  the  tops  of  a  pair  of  imaginary  glasses, 
and  under  them,  and  finally  through  them,  and  her 
ironical  glance  would  say  as  plainly  as  words,  "  This 
seems  to  be  a  love-affair."  She  would  neither  disap- 
prove nor  approve,  or,  if  she  did  approve,  it  would  be 
of  his  provision  of  entertainment  for  her.  Her  disap- 
proval would  appear  only  if  John  Willie  involved  her 
in  something  that  would  not  "  do." 

This  brought  John  Willie  straightway  back  face  to 
face  with  his  old  and  torturing  dilemma,  of  having  some- 
thing "  on  " —  but  something  that  would  not  "  do." 

A  hundred  times  he  had  fought  it  out,  and  a  hun- 
dred times  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that,  while 
Minetta  might  resemble  her  not  quite  human  father,  he, 
John  Willie,  was  his  mother's  son.  His  mother  would 
have  been  entirely  for  that  "  No  "  that  a  hundred  times 
had  gained  the  day.  After  each  of  these  victories  he 
had  been  on  the  point  of  turning  his  back  on  the  moun- 
tains and  of  not  returning  as  long  as  he  knew  her  to  be 
there.  These  impulses  had  now  nothing  to  do  with  his 
fear  of  startling  her.  They  were  born  of  that  stiff  and 
indispensable  code.  He  had  only  to  thank  her  for  a 
few  breakfasts,  to  tell  her  he  was  going,  to  wish  her 
well,  and  all  would  be  over.  He  found  rest  in  the 
thought.  He  might  suffer  an  ache  or  two  afterwards, 
but  it  would  be  the  best  way  out.  It  had  been  his 


THE  GLYN  325 

first  impulse,  and  it  had  proved  to  be  his  last  con- 
clusion. He  would  consider  it  settled  so.  It  would  be 
much  the  best  course  to  act  like  an  ordinary  young 
man. 

For  several  days  he  had  said  that. 

He  said  it  again  on  the  morning  when  he  shaved  off 
half  a  week's  growth  of  beard. 

Once  more  he  had  slept  within  a  stone' s-throw  of  the 
hut.  There  had  been  light  showers  during  the  night, 
but  hardly  enough  to  call  a  break  of  the  weather;  the 
drops  twinkled  on  fern  and  grass  and  spiders'-webs  and 
tiny  flowers,  but  the  ground  was  still  as  dry  as  tinder. 
As  he  shaved,  with  the  little  mirror  of  his  dressing- 
bag  hung  on  a  hazel,  he  reflected  that  it  was  only  half- 
past  seven,  and  that  the  Llyn  ought  to  be  a  good  colour 
for  fishing.  There  would  be  plenty  of  time  for  a  cast 
or  two  before  saying  good-bye.  But  his  rod  was  in  the 
locked  hut,  of  which  she  had  the  key.  No  matter. 
Since  he  had  now  come  to  his  decision,  it  would  make 
no  difference  did  he  seek  her  in  the  Glyn  a  little  earlier 
than  usual.  He  would  then  be  able  to  get  away  earlier 
in  order  to  say  good-bye  to  the  neglected  June. 

He  was  heartily  glad  it  was  all  over.  The  only  pos- 
sible course  seemed  so  plain  that  he  wondered  now  what 
he  had  been  tormenting  himself  about  all  this  time. 
Smiling  a  little,  he  even  thought  of  all  the  awkward- 
nesses and  dissimulations  and  machinations  and  deceits 
he  was  by  one  stroke  escaping.  He  would  have  felt 
rather  a  brute  had  he  come  upon  Dafydd  Dafis  one  day, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was  getting  on,  and,  casually, 
what  had  become  of  that  little  niece  or  cousin  of  his, 
whose  name  he  would  have  had  to  make  a  lying  pre- 
tence of  having  forgotten.  It  would  have  been  behav- 
ing rather  off-handedly  to  June,  to  see  her  for  the  first 


326  MUSHEOOM  TOWN 

two  days  only  of  her  stay  and  then  to  let  her  go  without 
as  much  as  seeing  her  off.  It  would  be  better  that 
Minetta  should  not  have  to  write  home  saying  that  John 
Willie  was  away  (fishing)  and  she  alone  in  the  house, 
but  she  was  quite  all  right.  It  would  be  better  to 
think  of  the  things  that  would  permanently  "  do  " — 
altogether  more  comfortable  and  satisfactory  not  to 
have  to  call  himself,  in  the  waking  hours  of  nights  in 
the  years  ahead,  or  in  the  days  to  come  when  business 
claimed  him,  by  a  disquieting  name.  It  was  not  as  if 
there  were  not  plenty  of  other  things  to  think  of.  This 
particular  aspect  of  life  was  far  too  much  dwelt  on. 
Percy  Briggs  dwelt  on  it  too  much,  he  himself  had 
dwelt  too  much  on  it.  He  wasn't  sure  that  he  hadn't 
been  getting  even  a  little  morbid  about  it.  Not  every 
lovely  flower  is  picked  because  it  is  lovely  and  then 
thrown  wilting  away  again.  John  Willie  had  come  to 
his  senses.  It  had  taken  him  some  time,  but  he  was 
all  right  again  now.  He  wondered  how  those  people  at 
the  inn  below  had  been  looking  after  his  horse.  They'd 
probably  let  him  get  fat  and  lazy.  Well,  he  would  give 
him  a  twisting  on  the  way  home.  Too  much  inaction 
is  good  for  neither  horse  nor  man.  .  .  . 

He  finished  shaving,  and  began  to  whistle  as  he 
packed  his  tackle  and  strapped  the  case.  He  would 
leave  the  case  where  it  was,  and  pick  it  up  on  his  way 
back.  He  would  take  the  boat,  pull  straight  across, 
get  it  over,  and  then  have  a  swinging  walk  down  to  the 
inn.  Despite  his  moping  wanderings,  he  felt  the  need 
of  a  really  good  hard  walk. 

He  strode  down  to  the  lake,  unfastened  the  boat, 
dashed  the  waterdrops  from  the  thwart  with  his  cap, 
and  pushed  off. 

It  was  a  brilliant,  if  broken,  sky.     Up  the  mountain- 


THE  GLYN  327 

side  the  light  mists  were  quickly  evaporating,  and  a 
great  crag  of  dazzling  white  cloud,  shaped  like  the 
north  of  Scotland  on  a  map,  was  perfectly  reduplicated 
in  the  glassy  Llyn.  As  if  the  surface  of  the  water  had 
had  a  tenuity  without  abating  a  jot  of  its  crystal  clear- 
ness, the  smooth  V  from  the  bows  seemed  to  shear 
through  something  that,  even  when  the  water  settled  to 
rest  again,  did  not  return ;  there  fled  at  each  stroke  an 
intact  perfection.  He  altered  the  boat's  course,  and 
the  reflection  of  the  edge  of  Delyn  broke  into  long 
smooth  stripes.  He  altered  it  again,  and  an  invisible 
comb  seemed  to  pass  through  the  towering  inverted 
cloud.  His  wake  was  a  dancing  of  broken  glittering 
facets.  He  stood  in  towards  the  shaly  spur;  a  few 
more  strong  strokes  and  he  grounded  abruptly;  and  he 
gathered  up  his  boots  and  stockings  from  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  stepped  out,  and  made  fast  at  the  bottom  of 
the  Glyn. 

The  showers  had  swollen  the  stream  a  little,  and 
mossy  stones  that  had  been  dry  the  day  before  were 
lapped  by  the  water,  and  pools  came  farther  up  his  calf. 
But  suddenly  at  a  thought  he  stopped.  In  the  new 
circumstances  it  was  a  new  thought.  She  did  not  ex- 
pect him  for  some  hours  yet;  it  might  be  better  —  in 
case  of  his  coming  upon  her  as  she  might  not  wish  to 
be  come  upon  —  to  give  a  call.  On  second  thoughts 
he  was  sure  that  he  ought  to  give  a  call.  He  opened 
his  mouth 

But  it  was  not  necessary.  Suddenly  he  saw  her 
twenty  yards  ahead.  She  had  probably  been  up  for 
hours,  and  had  got  her  bathe  over  long  since. 

But  even  that  glimpse  of  her  through  the  leaves  had 
been  as  it  were  two  glimpses.  In  the  first  of  them  he 
had  seen  that  she  was  there ;  in  the  second  he  had  noted 


328  MUSHEOOM  TOWN 

that  her  appearance  was  not  her  usual  appearance.  She 
was  no  longer  wearing  the  black  dress  of  Philip  Lacey's 
flower-shop,  but  that  old  blouse,  unconfined  at  the  waist, 
and  again,  as  on  that  day  when  she  had  started  back 
from  the  door  of  the  hut,  her  legs  and  feet  were  bare. 
Four  trout  lay  on  the  grass  beside  her,  one  of  them 
still  fluttering.  She  was  stroking  the  drops  of  water 
from  her  forearms,  and  wiping  her  hands  on  her  old 
striped  petticoat. 

He  did  not  call,  but  all  in  a  moment  she  looked 
round  as  quickly  as  if  he  had  done  so.  At  first  he 
thought  she  was  going  to  start  to  her  feet  and  run,  but 
she  remained  seated.  Then  a  bough  intervened.  He 
put  it  aside  behind  him,  threw  his  boots  and  stockings 
ashore,  and  climbed  the  bank. 

"  Hallo,  Ynys,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her. 
"  I'm  a  bit  early,  but  I've  got  to  get  off  soon.  They 
want  me  down  there.  There  are  some  people  I  must 
see  before  they  go." 

Then  he  wondered  whether,  after  all,  he  had  not 
startled  her.  In  her  eyes  was  once  more  that  look  that 
had  been  there  that  other  day,  when  she  had  fallen  back, 
though  no  farther  than  a  cat  falls  back.  If  that  was  so 
he  must  reassure  her  by  going  on  talking.  Without 
pausing,  he  continued. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  have  to  get  off  by  eleven.  I've  not 
been  home,  you  see.  Couldn't  stand  going  back  to 
that  place,  so  I  just  made  myself  comfortable  by  the 
hut  there. — I  say,  I  hope  you  didn't  get  wet  with  that 
rain  in  the  night  ?  " 

Simply,  freely,  naturally,  and  without  a  second 
thought,  he  put  out  his  hand  to  feel  whether  her  petti- 
coat was  dry.  He  supposed  she  slept  in  her  petticoat, 


THE  GLYN  329 

and  that  his  early  visit  had  not  allowed  her  time  to 
change. 

But  she  crouched  back  so  swiftly  that  he  also  fell  a 
little  back,  surprised.  He  forgot  that  his  own  words, 
"  I'm  a  bit  early,"  raised  twenty  questions  —  questions 
of  why  he  was  there  at  all,  of  how  it  had  come  to  pass 
that  a  variation  in  his  habit  was  a  thing  to  be  remarked 
on,  of  why  his  announcement  that  he  must  be  off  early 
seemed  even  to  himself  a  breach  of  something  that  had 
never  been  established,  but  only  tacitly  allowed.  He 
forgot  these  things,  stared  at  her,  and  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, "  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  "  Had  she  feared 
that  he  was  about  to  put  his  hand  upon  her  ?  One  of 
her  elbows  had  shot  up  as  if  she  would  have  defended 
herself,  and  the  frightened  seaweed  eyes  looked  at  him 
over  the  guarding  forearm.  Her  other  hand,  behind 
her  on  the  grass,  supported  her.  So  they  sat,  she 
trembling,  he  covering  her  with  an  astonished  stare. 

Then,  as  quickly  as  she  had  raised  it,  she  dropped 
the  defending  arm.  She  made  a  swift  clutch  at  her 
petticoats  and  scrambled  a  foot  farther  away  from  him. 
Her  breast  fluttered  like  that  of  the  still  living^  trout, 
and  her  hand  was  clasped  betrayingly  about  one  foot 
hidden  in  the  short  striped  petticoat. 

And  in  a  twink  John  Willie  saw  his  mistake.  It 
was  not  from  his  advanced  hand  that  she  had  shrunk. 
It  was  from  the  resting  of  his  eyes  —  those  eyes  that, 
even  as  she  had  drawn  herself  back,  had  already  rested. 
Those  eyes,  of  Scandinavian  blue,  had  sought  hers 
again,  of  the  wet  greenish  brown  of  the  seaweed  of  the 
shore. 

He  spoke  quietly. 

"  Come  here,  Ynys,"  he  said. 


330  MUSHEOOM  TOWN" 

She  did  not  move. 

"  Come  here,  Ynys,"  he  said  again. 

Her  trembling  became  violent. 

"  Come  here,  Ynys  —  I  want " 

He  did  not  finish.  His  hand  shot  quickly  forth. 
The  next  moment  it  held  what  she  had  striven  to  hide. 
He  was  gazing  at  the  silver  mark  that  ran  round  the 
outer  edge  of  her  foot  near  the  little  toe  as  a  vein  runs 
round  a  pebble. 

She  had  twisted  her  body  so  that  her  face  lay  on  the 
grass,  covered  with  her  hands.  She  made  one  feeble 
movement  to  draw  the  foot  from  his  hand,  and  then 
lay  still.  When,  presently,  he  put  it  gently  down,  she 
made  no  further  attempt  to  hide  it ;  what  was  the  good, 
since  he  had  seen?  It  lay  still  now,  a  little  crinkled 
brown  sole  with  bits  of  vegetation  pressed  into  it,  and, 
running  across  it,  that  old  thread,  silver,  like  the  wed- 
ding-ring of  her  mother  —  that  hard  little  sole  that  had 
made  the  kidney-shaped  footprints  on  the  Llanyglo 
beach,  that  had  pattered  after  pedestrians  on  the  road, 
and  that  would  take  to  the  roads  again  rather  than  be 
pressed  into  a  shoe  and  walk  the  pavements  of  a  town. 

Yet,  though  he  had  seen  the  foot,  she  seemed  deter- 
mined he  should  not  see  her  face  too.  Presently  she 
was  conscious  that  he  was  trying  to  do  so,  that  he  was 
gently  trying  to  draw  away  the  concealing  hands.  That 
she  resisted.  "  Ynys !  Ynys !  "  he  was  saying  re- 
morsefully in  her  ear.  She  lay  quite  still,  and  "  Ynys ! 
Ynys !  "  he  continued  to  repeat,  over  and  over  again. 

At  last  he  heard  that  uniquely  soft  voice  of  hers  in 
reply.  She  spoke  into  the  grass,  not  sobbingly,  only  a 
little  dully. 

"  I  'ould  not  show  you,"  she  begged  him  —  movingly 
begged  him  —  to  believe. 


THE  GLYN  331 

"  Ynys  —  dear ! " 

"  Indeed  you  ask  me,  one  day,  if  I  take  off  my 
boots  and  stock-kings,  and  I  'ould  not " 

"  No,  no "  he  soothed  her. 

"  I  not  show  nobody,  in  lot-t  of  years,  never."  She 
turned  her  face  to  him  for  a  moment;  the  anger  of  a 
fury  lurked  there  for  him  had  he  not  believed  her. 
"  I  not  show  nobody,  if  they  kill  me,"  she  went  on. 

"  Lot-t  of  years  I  hate  it "  the  vindictiveness  of 

the  single  word  died  away,  and  he  scarcely  heard  what 
came  next,  " —  but  I  not  hate  it  any  more  now " 

His  answer  was  to  rise  suddenly  to  his  knees,  to  stoop 
again,  and  to  kiss  the  foot  he  had  innocently  maimed. 
He  was  conscious  as  he  did  so  of  its  quick  little  pressure 
against  his  mouth.  .  .  . 

The  next  moment  his  arm  was  about  her  shoulder, 
and  he  was  gently  seeking  to  see  her  face  again. 

"  Cariad !  "  he  murmured,  his  lips  to  her  ear. 

And  he  knew  that  by  no  other  means  could  it  have 
come  to  pass.  "  Lot-t  of  years  I  hate  it  —  but  I  not 
hate  it  any  more."  She  had  hated  the  foot  for  its  dis- 
figurement. She  had  loved  it  for  him.  /  x 

There  was  no  question  of  Yes  or  No  as  they  ate  their 
breakfast  together;  it  was  as  it  was,  and  neither  guilt 
nor  innocence  had  any  part  in  it.  From  time  to  time, 
as  they  sat,  he  flung  his  arms  about  her  shoulders  as 
frankly  as  children  embrace,  and  she  suffered  the  crush- 
ing with  lips  parted  and  eyes  immeasurably  far  away. 
The  black  pool  was  flecked  with  froth;  it  danced  over 
the  whitey-green  ebullition  at  the  foot  of  the  swollen 
fall ;  and  two  dragon-flies,  one  blue  as  a  scarab  and  the 
other  like  a  darting  twig  of  green  metal,  hovered  and 
set  and  spun.  There  seemed  to  be  no  wind,  but  the 
great  country  of  white  cloud  up  aloft  had  advanced, 


332  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

and  a  soft  gloom  filled  the  Glyn.  They  did  not  wash 
up ;  impatiently  John  Willie  tossed  the  platter  they  had 
shared  aside ;  and  they  embraced  again. 

Midday  did  not  find  John  Willie  on  his  way  to 
Llanyglo,  nor  yet  did  he  see  June  off  by  the  three 
o'clock  train.  By  three  o'clock  he  was  on  the  summit 
of  Delyn  again,  under  the  same  rock  where  he  had  tried, 
as  if  by  accident,  to  touch  her  hand.  She  had  put  on 
her  shoes,  but  not  her  stockings,  for  the  climb,  but  he 
had  drawn  them  off  again,  and  once  more  she  lay, 
luxuriating  with  her  foot  under  his  hand.  Even  now 
she  did  not  talk  very  much.  She  had  only  one  thing  to 
say,  with  lovely  monotony  and  very  few  words  to  say 
it  in;  she  strayed  no  farther  from  her  little  store  of 
English  than  to  say,  over  and  over  again,  "  Boy  bach !  " 
with  the  greenish-brown  eyes  slavishly  on  his,  and  her 
parted  lips  hurrying  out  the  diminutive  before  he 
crushed  them  again.  She  started  from  her  dream  once, 
as  a  stray  sheep  close  behind  them  gave  a  call  like  a 
rich  oboe ;  then  she  relapsed  into  it  again.  The  shadows 
lay  still  and  leagues  long  over  the  rumple  of  mountains, 
and  "she  had  not  changed,  and  had  promised  that  she 
would  not  again  change,  that  unfastened  bodice  and 
short  and  faded  old  petticoat. 

So  June  steamed  away,  while  Ynys's  face  was  framed 
in  John  Willie's  arm  on  the  summit  of  Delyn. 

They  descended  to  the  Glyn  again  between  the  after- 
noon and  the  early  evening,  and  with  each  step  as  they 
dropped  down  the  mountain  a  silence  grew  and  deep- 
ened on  them.  He  knew  its  meaning,  if  she  did  not, 
and,  back  by  the  pool  again,  he  first  cleaned  the  forgot- 
ten platter  (which  she  tried  to  prevent),  and  then  stood 
before  her  as  he  had  stood  when  once,  with  an  abrupt, 
da,"  he  had  stridden  away.  And  in  that  pause 


THE  GLYN  333 

of  gazing  silence  he  knew  how  much  was  packed  —  his 
Yes,  his  No,  hers  too ;  all  that  lay  behind  them,  all  that 
lay  before.  For  him,  there  lay  enwrapped  in  it  that 
slight  black  figure  he  had  seen  under  the  crimson  pier- 
light;  his  searching  for  her;  his  finding  her;  his 
struggles,  his  decision,  and  then,  even  in  the  act  of  his 
relinquishment,  his  wonderful  recovery  of  her.  And 
her  memory  took  a  farther  flight  still.  She  saw  her- 
self, a  little  girl,  sitting  with  a  bandaged  foot  upon  a 
chair,  while  a  testy  girl  not  two  years  older  than  her- 
self drew  her  likeness.  She  remembered  the  unendur- 
able length  of  those  half -hours  —  unendurable,  save 
that  occasionally  there  looked  in  at  the  door  or  passed 
the  window  a  cowslip-haired  boy,  with  hard  blue  eyes 
that  would  stare  down  even  his  own  conscience  and  none 
be  the  wiser,  a  conquering  boy,  of  a  race  so  habituated 
to  conquest  that  it  takes  with  the  sword-hand  and  care- 
lessly tosses  twice  as  much  back  with  the  other.  That 
was  what  it  meant  to  her,  that  silver  mark  that  ran 
round  the  edge  of  her  foot  as  a  vein  runs  round  the  edge 
of  a  pebble.  .  .  . 

And  for  the  future  ?  His  future  might  be  anything, 
but  hers  could  be  one  thing  only.  For  the  gipsy  loves 
never  but  the  once.  In  all  but  love,  the  waters  of  the 
world  are  not  more  unstable  than  she ;  in  love,  the  rocks 
are  not  more  irremovable.  Therefore  she  has  no  past 
and  no  regrets.  She  has  no  regrets,  for  there  is  no 
scar  upon  her  heart  —  how  can  there  be  a  scar,  when 
a  scar  is  a  healing,  and  this  wound  is  never  healed,  but 
ever  new,  ever  quivering?  And  she  has  no  past  — 
how  can  she  have  a  past  when  all  is  a  poignant  and 
lovely  present,  that  endures  to  the  end  ?  .  .  . 

There  was  so  little  for  John  Willie  to  do.  He  had 
only  to  go  away  without  kissing  her  again. 


334  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Kiss  her,  however,  he  must  not  —  he  was  only  an 
ordinary  young  man 

He  knew  it,  and 

He  passed  his  arms  about  her  waist  and  drew  her 
down  by  his  side. 

It  was  dark  in  the  Glyn  long  before  the  light  had 
faded  from  the  open  hillside  above.  In  Llyn  Delyn 
not  a  fish  rose  to  break  that  dark  and  intact  perfection. 
The  fall  into  the  pool  diminished  a  little  in  volume, 
and  mossy  cushions  that  had  lately  been  covered  began 
to  rise  out  of  the  water  again.  And  a  heart  was  laid 
quiveringly  open  where  formerly  only  a  foot  had  been 
maimed.  She  was  twice  conquered,  for  she  was  Welsh 
and  woman  too.  In  the  hearts  of  the  men  of  her  race 
the  fame  of  their  story  still  lives,  and  while  it  lives 
strife  will  not  cease.  As  their  own  proverb  says,  what 
the  sword  took,  the  tongue  will  take  back  again. 

But  the  woman  goes  with  the  land. 


PART  FIVE 


THE    "WHETTL 

IT  was  a  summer  nightfall  in  the  Kursaal  Gardens. 
The  turnstiles  of  the  new  Main  Entrance  in  Pont- 
newydd  Street  revolved  ceaselessly,  with  a  noise  as  of 
an  unending  rack  and  pinion.  The  lightly  clad  merry- 
makers poured  under  the  trees  that  had  electric  globes 
for  fruit ;  they  moved  towards  the  cream-coloured  build- 
ings that,  with  their  illuminations,  seemed  no  more  than 
footlights  to  the  solemn  stage  of  the  immeasurable  blue 
beyond.  Most  of  them  were  going  to  that  Dancing- 
Hail  where  all  the  youths  and  maidens  of  the  world 
seemed  to  dance  together;  the  others  hurried  to  keep 
appointments,  to  sit  at  the  little  tables  where  the  wait- 
ers moved  on  the  grass,  to  join  the  slowly  moving  circle 
about  the  bandstand,  or  to  see  the  side-shows.  The 
band  played  the  "  Lohengrin  "  Prelude ;  the  soft  sound 
of  gravel  crunching  underfoot  mingled  with  the  music ; 
and  the  great  lighted  circle  of  the  Big  Wheel  rose 
against  the  sky. 

In  the  topmost  coach  of  the  Wheel  sat  John  Willie 
Garden  and  June  Lacey.  They  were  alone  in  the 
bright  upholstered  compartment.  June  wore  her  Juni- 
est  frock  and  an  engagement  ring;  John  Willie,  who 
had  been  walking,  was  in  cap  and  knickers.  They  had 
been  engaged  since  the  Spring,  and  everybody  had  said 

335 


336  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

how  splendidly  it  would  "  do."  They  had  played  to- 
gether (everybody  had  said)  since  childhood,  knew 
exactly  what  to  expect  and  what  not  to  expect  of  one 
another,  had  (as  they  put  it)  the  solid  cake  to  cut  at 
when  the  sugar  and  the  almond-paste  had  begun  to  pall, 
and  what  could  have  been  more  romantic  ? 

"  They'd  be  hard  put  to  it  to  think  of  anything 
they're  short  of,"  everybody  had  said. 

From  the  windows  of  the  car  they  could  see  the 
whole  of  Llanyglo.  With  the  turning  of  the  Wheel  they 
had  watched  its  lights  rise  slowly  over  the  intervening 
roofs,  and  then  slowly  sink  away  again.  Now,  to  see 
the  grounds  below,  they  had  to  step  to  the  windows  and 
to  look  almost  vertically  down,  through  the  intricacy  of 
girders  and  lattice  and  mammoth  supporting  piers. 

"  It  takes  about  twenty  minutes  to  go  round,  doesn't 
it  ?  "  June  asked. 

"  About  that,"  John  Willie  replied  absently. 

"  Look  at  the  Trwyn  light !  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  We  aren't  as  high  as  that,  are  we  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  no." 

"  I  suppose  we've  stopped  to  take  more  passengers 
up?" 

"  I  expect  so." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  June  said,  "  Do  you  know,  dear, 
I  think  I've  finally  decided  about  the  drawing-room. 
I  think  I  shall  have  it  all  white  —  every  bit " 

From  her  white  gloves  to  her  gypsophylla  petticoats, 
she  was  a  girl  any  young  man  would  have  been  glad  to 
spend  his  shillings  on,  and  her  house  was  going  to  be  as 
smart  and  complete  as  herself.  Her  father  was  coming 
down  very  handsomely  for  her  wedding,  and  in  addi- 
tion to  his  other  gifts,  was  going  to  lay  out  the  gardens 


THE  WHEEL  337 

and  the  greenhouse  for  them.  Counting  her  silver, 
tapping  her  flower-pots  to  see  which  was  in  need  of 
water,  trimming  bits  of  raffia  with  her  scissors  and  put- 
ting drops  of  gum  into  her  geraniums,  June  would  be 
exactly  in  her  right  place.  She  was  already  attending 
a  Cookery  Class,  and  had  all  her  household  linen 
marked.  And  already  they  were  promised  any  num- 
ber of  presents.  "  Presents  are  so  useful,"  she  had 
said  to  John  Willie,  "  because  then  you  have  them,  and 
so  often  they're  the  kind  of  thing  you'd  put  off  buying 
for  yourself."  It  was  all  going  to  "  do  "  very  splen- 
didly. 

"  I  say,"  said  John  Willie  by  and  by,  "  we  don't 
seem  to  be  moving." 

"  The  Wheel  ?  "  June  asked. 

"  Yes.     But  it  will  go  on  in  a  minute,  I  expect." 

"  I  hope  it  won't  stop  long,"  June  replied. 

John  Willie  also  hoped  it  would  not  stop  long,  but 
for  the  life  of  him  he  couldn't  have  told  you  why  he 
hoped  so.  Indeed  he  tried  to  smother  the  hope.  He 
tried  to  smother  it  because  he  had  an  obscure  feeling 
that  —  that  —  well,  if  a  reason  can  smile^  that  his 
reason  for  not  wishing  to  stay  up  there"  too  long  was 
quietly  smiling  at  him.  It  seemed  to  tell  him  that  he 
and  everything  about  him  were  enviably  all  right  — 
safe  —  thoroughly  and  entirely  comfortable  —  need 
have  no  fears  for  the  future  —  and  that  all  would  con- 
tinue to  be  just  as  comfortable  and  safe  and  altogether 
all  right  until  he  should  come  to  die,  in  a  best  bed,  with 
eiderdowns,  and  frilled  pillow-cases,  and  hot  bottles,  and 
the  certainty  of  a  handsomely  appointed  funeral  a  few 
days  later.  Few  were  as  sure  of  their  future  as  that. 
John  Willie  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones.  .  .  . 

He  moved,  not  to  the  windows  from  which  he  could 


338  MUSHROOM  TOWX 

look  down  on  the  lights  of  the  Promenade  and  Pier,  but 
to  those  that  were  turned  to  the  dark  and  unseen  moun- 
tains. Somehow  this  reason  he  had  for  hoping  that  the 
car  would  not  stop  long  seemed  to  come  from  there. 
He  told  himself  that  he  would  be  better  presently.  He 
had  these  —  bad  humours,  call  them  —  sometimes. 
He  hid  them  from  June,  but  Minetta  had  noticed  them, 
and  he  knew  all  about  them  himself.  He  turned  to 
June  again. 

"  I  wonder  what's  happened,"  he  said. 

"  It's  —  it's  quite  safe,  isn't  it  ?  "  June  asked. 

"  Oh,  quite."  His  lips  compressed  a  little.  It  was 
quite  safe  —  neither  more  nor  less  safe  than  everything 
else  in  John  Willie's  life.  That,  somehow,  was  at  the 
bottom  of  these  ill-humours  of  his. 

"  Dash  it,"  he  muttered.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  a  nuisance,"  June  agreed.  "  But  I  don't  sup- 
pose Minetta  will  be  anxious." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Minetta,"  John  Willie  re- 
plied. 

Now  when  you  are  reluctant  to  enter  into  explana- 
tion, and  there  is  something  you  badly  want  to  do,  you 
never  (if  you  are  an  ordinary  young  man)  look  very 
far  for  a  reason.  The  first  that  comes  will  serve  your 
turn.  If  it  is  a  flimsy  one,  no  matter;  you  then  get 
angry  when  its  flimsiness  is  pointed  out  to  you,  and 
presently  out  of  your  anger  and  obstinacy  you  will  have 
found  a  reason  as  good  as  another.  John  Willie  did 
not  at  all  like  those  interior  smiling  taunts  of  himself 
that  took  the  form  of  congratulations  on  his  neatly 
planned  life  and  pillowed  and  feathered  death  to  close 
it.  If  anybody  of  his  own  weight  had  taunted  him 
thus  he  would  have  knocked  that  person  down.  But 
you  cannot  knock  down  a  whisper  that  seems  to  come 


THE  WHEEL  339 

on  the  wind  from  the  mountains  through  the  night, 
making  you,  your  ordered  comfort  notwithstanding, 
absolutely  wretched.  Again  John  Willie  turned  to 
June. 

"  I  say,  June ;  this  won't  do,  you  know,"  he  said. 

June  looked  enquiringly  at  him. 

"But  we  can't  do  anything  but  wait,  dear,  can 
we?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

They  waited.  Half  an  hour  passed.  Then  John 
Willie  muttered  again  that,  among  so  many  other  things 
that  would  "  do "  beautifully,  this  particular  thing 
would  not  "  do."  June  coloured  a  little. 

"  But  —  but  —  it  isn't  our  fault,"  she  murmured, 
picking  at  the  fingers  of  her  gloves. 

He  saw  she  understood.     Again  they  waited. 

Then,  suddenly,  John  Willie  came  shortly  out  with 
that  reason  that  must  serve  in  the  stead  of  his  real 
reason.  He  knew  how  lame  it  was.  A  score  or  two  of 
other  young  couples  were  in  precisely  the  same  situa- 
tion as  they,  and  more  that  cheerfully  resigned  to  their 
plight;  but  then  they  were  not  being  goaded  and 
taunted  as  John  Willie  was  being  goaded  and  taunted. 
They  were  not  being  told  that  their  paths  lay,  so  to 
speak,  on  flowers,  while  the  paths  of  others  were  the 
stony  road,  that  cut  and  blistered  the  foot,  and  tired  the 
eyes,  and  bowed  the  back  (but  had  no  power,  perhaps, 
thus  to  reproach  the  heart).  .  .  .  Anyway,  John  Wil- 
lie was  not  disposed  to  stand  it. 

"  June,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  I  can't  stay  up  here  all 
night  with  you." 

Her  wail  interrupted  him. — "  Oh-h-h ! " 

"  It  wouldn't  do." 

"  Oh-h-h  —  it  isn't  our  fault " 


340  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"No,  but  that  can't  be  helped.  The  woman  I 
marry ' 

"  Oh-h-h  —  but  there  isn't  anything  to  do !  " 

"  Oh,  yes  there  is.  We  needn't  be  together.  I  can 
get  into  another  car  or  something.  It  will  only  be  like 
walking  along  the  footboard  of  a  train." 

She  gave  a  little  shriek. — "  Oh  —  if  you  do  I  shall 
throw  myself  out  —  I  know  I  shall ! " 

"You  won't  do  anything  so  silly.  Get  up,  dear; 
Fve  quite  made  up  my  mind.  I  tell  you  it  wouldn't 
do.  The  woman  I  marry  .  .  ." 

With  gentle  force  he  picked  her  up  and  set  her  on 
the  seat  of  the  car.  Then  he  approached  the  window. 
There  was  a  bar  across  it,  which  it  took  him  a  minute 
to  bend,  but  the  chances  were  that  where  his  head 
would  pass  the  rest  of  his  body  might  follow.  June 
hid  her  face  and  moaned  as  he  took  off  his  coat;  then 
he  kissed  her  and  thrust  his  head  under  the  bar.  He 
wriggled  through,  stood  on  the  footboard,  smiled  again 
grimly  through  the  window,  and  then  looked  down. 

At  any  rate,  he  had  given  a  reason  of  sorts. 

Then  he  looked  up. 

Instantly  he  saw  that,  unless  head  or  wrist  or  finger 
should  unexpectedly  fail  him,  the  most  dangerous  part 
of  his  exploit  lay  at  the  very  beginning.  There  was 
no  descent  from  the  step  on  which  he  stood.  The  cars 
were  slung  from  axles,  and  in  order  to  get  to  the  rim 
that  held  the  axles  themselves  he  must  climb  to  the  roof 
of  the  coach.  He  glanced  at  the  roof  of  the  coach 
twenty  feet  below  and  to  his  left.  He  saw  that  it  had 
a  curved  rain-sill  like  that  of  the  top  of  a  railway  car- 
riage. Good;  the  coaches  would  be  all  alike.  He  set 
his  knees  in  the  window-frame  once  more.  June  was 
still  lying  with  her  face  hidden  on  the  seat.  His  fin- 


THE  WHEEL  341 

gers  felt  blindly  for  the  rain-sill ;  they  found  it,  and  he 
moistened  his  other  hand.  He  wished  he  could  have 
glued  it,  for  for  some  moments  mere  friction  must  be 
half  his  support.  For  an  instant  he  thought  calmly 
and  abysmally;  then  he  risked  it.  ... 

It  succeeded.  He  knelt  on  the  roof,  holding  the 
sling  and  coupling  that  hung  from  the  car-axle  over- 
head. He  glanced  up  at  the  axle  to  which  he  must 
swarm.  The  singing  in  the  cars  continued,  and  a 
babble  of  sound  rose  lightly  from  below.  Evidently  he 
had  not  been  seen  to  get  out  of  the  car. 

But  then,  who  would  have  thought  of  looking? 

It  was  as  he  swarmed  up  the  coupling  that  there 
first  came  over  him  the  sense  of  the  difference  between 
the  reason  he  had  given,  and  the  real  reason  that  had 
brought  him  out  from  that  brightly  lighted  and  cush- 
ioned car  in  which  he  might  far  more  easily  have 
stopped.  And  the  realisation  of  that  difference  brought 
with  it,  very  strangely,  the  sense,  not  of  bodily  peril, 
but  of  inner  peace.  It  was  unaccountable,  but  there  it 
was,  not  to  be  argued  about.  The  only  tljing  that  dis- 
turbed this  peace,  and  that  but  lightly,  was  that  his 
venture  had  not  a  more  profitable  object.  Folk  did  less 
dangerous  things  for  far  better  reason  —  to  save  life,  or 
property,  or  something  else  worth  while.  But  this 
neck-risking  of  his  was  —  could  only  be  —  bravado. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  that  in  the  circumstances  no- 
body would  have  thought  a  penny  the  worse  of  June. 

"  The  woman  I  marry "  he  had  known  that  to  be 

an  hypocrisy  even  when  he  had  said  it.  No,  he  was 
merely  idiotically  showing-off,  and  that  peace  at  his 
heart  would  presently  prove  to  be  an  illusion.  .  .  . 

It  was   quite  suddenly,   as   he  lay   out   along  the 


342  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

Wheel's  topmost  car-axle,  that  the  thought  of  Ynys  came 
to  him.  He  didn't  know  why  it  should  come  at  that 
moment,  unless  it  was  born  of  his  bodily  isolation  on 
the  very  top  of  that  immense  bracelet  hung  with 
trinkets  of  cars.  But  perhaps  it  was  that ;  perhaps  there 
was  a  connection,  if  only  an  idle  and  fanciful  one. 
Save  perhaps  the  keeper  of  the  Trwyn  light,  nobody  in 
Llanyglo  was  nearer  the  stars  than  he  that  night;  and 
only  Mynedd  Mawr  had  been  higher  than  he  when  he 
had  lain  on  the  rocky  head  of  Delyn.  .  .  . 

Or  was  it,  not  the  isolation  of  his  body  at  all,  but  his 
isolation  of  soul,  that  had  brought  that  mysterious  and 
inexplicable  and  probably  fallacious  peace  ? 

While  not  ceasing  to  keep  his  carefully  calculating 
eyes  open,  and  every  motor-fold  of  his  brain  intent  on 
the  preservation  of  his  balance,  he  began  to  think  of 
Delyn. 

He  had  stayed  many  days  up  there ;  some  weeks  per- 
haps; he  couldn't  have  told  you  how  long.  Its  rain 
had  soaked  him,  and  its  winds  dried  him  again;  its 
streams  had  fed  him  and  its  herbage  furnished  his  litter 
at  night ;  but  the  sun  itself  had  not  warmed  him  more 
than  had  her  impulsive  looks  and  surrendering  gestures 
when  he  had  but  lifted  up  a  hand.  With  another  eye 
than  that  that  now  measured  the  distances  between  gird- 
ers and  axles  and  ties,  he  seemed  to  see  the  rocks  again, 
and  the  lake  shining  in  its  morning  intactness,  and  the 
drowned  bubbles  of  the  fall  in  the  Glyn,  and  the  thin 
wind  stroking  the  short  grass,  and  the  mountain-ashes 
under  which  they  had  sat,  their  leaves  like  finger- 
prints against  the  sky.  He  could  see  again  the  trout 
she  had  cooked-  for  him  —  her  breast  had  fluttered  as 
those  dying  silvery  things  had  fluttered,  silvery  as  that 
dry  old  scar  he  had  kissed.  He  could  smell  the  smoke 


THE  WHEEL  343 

of  her  morning  fire  again,  her  hair,  her  breast.  .  .  . 
And  he  could  hear  again  the  shrill  warning  note  in  that 
unique  voice  of  hers  that  had  first  set  him  wondering 
whether,  after  all,  it  would  "  do."  .  .  . 

That  quarrel  had  not  been  on  that  heart-breaking 
morning  of  their  parting.  There  had  been  no  quarrel 
then.  No ;  it  had  been  at  something  unguarded  he  had 
said  about  his  sister  and  her  friends.  Yes,  he  saw 
again  the  insensate  jealous  flame  in  those  seaweed  eyes, 
and  heard  the  ugly  passionate  cracking  of  the  voice  in 
which  she  had  cried,  "  They  noth-thing,  your  fine 
miss-es!  They  mar-ry  house  without  a  man  if  they 
could  —  they  take  house  in.  their  arms  —  they  make 
those  eyes  at  house,  and  kiss  house,  and  call  it  cariad ! 
You  no  dif-f erent  from  them !  You  go  to  your  miss 

and  say,  '  I  have  house  ' —  she  want-t  you  then ! ' 

It  had  taken  a  whole  morning  before  he  had  had  her, 
humble  and  sobbing  and  remorseful  and  enslaved,  in  his 
arms  again.  .  .  .  No,  it  wouldn't  have  done  to  marry 
a  temper  like  that  —  and,  temper  altogether  apart,  it 
wouldn't  have  done.  There  are  only  a  few  years  of  this 
world  and  its  companionships,  and,  though  your  friends 
may  have  their  twists  and  crankinesses,  "they  are  .still 
your  friends,  all  you  are  likely  to  have.  Better  be  in 
the  stream  with  them  while  you  are  here.  He  would 
only  have  been  sorry  for  it  later,  on  her  account  as  well 
as  on  his  own.  She  had  been  quicker  to  see  that  than 
he,  and  had  spoken  of  it  in  her  soft  and  halting  Eng- 
lish. At  first  he  had  laughed  and  said  "  Kiss  me  "... 
but  she  had  been  right.  .  .  . 

But  John  Willie,  with  a  Wheel  to  descend,  must  not 
let  these  things  take  him  too  far  from  the  business  in 
hand. 

He  had  reached  a  chain  in  a  great  guiding  sprocket, 


344  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

but  he  thought  of  what  at  any  moment  a  hand  upon 
a  lever  in  the  power-house  far  below  might  do,  and  of 
one  of  his  father's  men  who  had  once  been  carried 
round  shafting.  No  moving  parts  for  him.  .  .  .  He 
looked  down  through  an  iron-framed  lozenge  at  the 
people  below.  The  grounds  resembled  a  tray  of  many- 
coloured  moving  beads.  All  Llanyglo  seemed  to  have 
run  to  see  the  stopped  Wheel.  Probably  the  Pier  itself 
was  half  empty.  If  so,  all  the  more  room  for  anybody 
who  wanted  to  watch,  not  a  Wheel,  but  the  moon  lift 
her  gilded  sacrificial  horn  out  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  There 
had  been  far  too  much  drub-drub-drubbing.  John  Wil- 
lie was  weary  of  it.  It  was  time  he  settled  down. 
And  Llanyglo  itself  seemed  to  have  come  to  much  the 
same  conclusion.  It  had  begun  to  make  a  restriction 
here  and  a  regulation  there,  as  if  it  wished  to  purge 
itself  of  its  evil  name.  There  was  no  doubt  that  for  a 
time  it  had  been  a  very  sinful  place,  and  .  .  .  (here 
John  Willie,  with  a  slow  steady  pull,  hoisted  himself 
to  where  he  wished  to  be,  on  the  long  curved  upper 
plate  of  a  massive  H,  rivet-studded  like  a  boiler,  that 
was  knitted  with  iron  lace  to  other  H's  —  John  Willie 
must  not  venture  too  far  down  that  slope  unless  he 
should  suddenly  acquire  a  fly's  faculty  for  walking  up- 
side-down) .  .  .  and  perhaps  the  town  had  begun  to 
get  a  little  frightened,  as  sinful  people,  and  perhaps 
sinful  towns  also,  sometimes  do.  But  that  would  be 
all  right  presently.  Llanyglo  was  going,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking,  to  be  married.  It  was  turning  over,  had 
turned  over,  a  new  leaf.  Soon  it  would  be  a  churlish 
thing  to  reproach  it  for  a  past  that  it  had  lived  down; 
it  was  becoming  sadder  and  wiser,  and  better  able  to 
distinguish  between  the  things  that  would  "  do  "  and 
the  things  that  would  not.  The  less  talk  .  .  .  (here 


THE  WHEEL  345 

John  Willie  began  to  realise  that  he  was  not  a  fly,  and 
to  collect  his  nerves  for  the  turn-over  to  the  under  side 
of  that  H  that  a  few  yards  away  dropped  over,  with  a 
little  gleam,  into  nothing)  .  .  .  the  less  talk  the  soon- 
est mended.  He  did  not  intend  to  say  —  anything  — > 
to  June.  Indeed  he  intended  .  .  .  (there:  that  was 
rather  a  jerk  to  his  shoulder  socket,  but  he  was  safely 
underneath)  .  .  .  indeed  he  intended  that  his  attitude 
to  June  about  such  matters  should  be  rather  severe. 
This  was  not  because  June's  own  thoughts  were  in  the 
least  degree  lax  (she  erred,  if  anywhere,  on  the  prudish 
side),  but  because  women  were  very  tender  things.  A 
whisper  was  fatal  to  them.  That  was  why  John  Willie 
was  clinging  now  to  that  enormous  piece  of  knitting  of 
iron  and  upholstered  carriages  and  electric  light.  He 
had  climbed  out  in  order  that  nobody  should  be  able  to 
say,  after  that,  that  .  .  . 

Then  it  was  that  he  knew,  once  and  for  ever,  that 
this  was  a  lie.  Then  it  was  that  he  knew  that  he  was 
not  where  he  was,  suspended  between  the  stars  of 
heaven  and  the  lamps  of  earth,  on  June's  account.  He 
was  there  because  a  gipsy  girl  had  called  him.  This 
was  his  service,  not  of  the  pretty  and  pleasant  June  he 
was  presently  going  to  marry,  but  of  one  whom  he  had 
not  married,  of  one  he  had  not  feared  to  compromise, 
of  one  who  had  known  nothing,  cared  nothing,  save 
that  she  had  been  lost  in  a  wild  and  tender  and  beauti- 
ful love.  She,  none  other,  had  called  him 

Then,  too,  it  was  that  there  rose  to  him  from  below 
a  faint  yet  high  and  shuddering  "  A-a-a-ah !  "  that  was 
followed  by  a  sudden  cessation  of  all  sound  whatever 
save  only  a  distant  throb  and  pulsing  in  the  Dancing- 
Hail.  It  surprised  him  for  a  moment ;  then  he  remem- 
bered. Of  course.  He  had  been  seen 


346  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

She,  none  other,  had  called  him,  and  he  knew  now 
that  so  she  would  continue  to  call  him,  wherever  he 
might  be  —  from  his  labour  by  day  and  from  his  rest 
by  night,  from  his  laughter  with  his  children  and  his 
clasping  of  his  wife.  She  would  continue  to  call  him 
until  softness  and  ease  should  have  done  their  slow  and 
fatal  work,  would  continue  to  call  him  until  that  nerve, 
with  her  harping  on  it,  should  have  become  dull.  .  .  . 

He  seemed  to  hear  the  echoes  of  that  voiceless  call- 
ing, diminishing  through  the  years  to  come.  They 
would  end  in  a  silence  that  his  wife's  innocent  gar- 
rulity would  never,  never  be  able  to  break 

The  faint  throb  in  the  Dancing-Hail  also  ceased. 
The  Kursaal  Gardens  were  a  bead  mat  of  faces.  There 
was  not  a  whisper.  Delyn  was  not  stiller. 

Unconscious  that  already  he  was  black  and  torn  and 
bleeding,  he  looked  down  from  his  girder  upon  the  bead 
mat.  He  knew  what,  presently,  if  he  came  down  alive, 
every  bead  there  would  be  singing  —  his  daring  and 
his  quixotry  and  his  devotion,  and  the  possession  by 
June  of  a  husband  who  would  do  this  rather  than  suffer 
the  lightest  breath  upon  the  mirror  of  her  name 

He  looked  at  them  as  he  clung,  scarce  bigger  than  a 
speck,  high  in  that  webbed  diadem  of  the  Wheel 

And  as  he  hung  there,  with  only  the  guardian  of  the 
Trwyn  light  higher  than  he,  and  the  rest  of  the  descent 
still  to  make,  he  still  could  not  decide,  of  the  two  things 
that  oppressed  his  heart,  which  was  the  atonement  and 
which  the  sin. 


.     II 

ADIEU 

"TTOU'RE  leaving  Llanyglo?  Well,  holidays 
J[  must  come  to  an  end. —  You'd  like  another 
walk  up  the  Trwyn?  Very  well;  but  you've  seen  all 
there  is  to  see.  .  .  . 

"  Here  we  are.  .  .  .  What's  going  on  at  the  Light  ? 
Oh,  that's  the  Board  of  Trade,  experimenting  with 
some  new  fog  apparatus  or  other.  By  the  way,  the 
Light  people  are  rather  sore  because  of  a  new  Regula- 
tion, that  they  mustn't  have  lodgers  at  the  farm;  and 
also  because  they'd  like  to  grow  roses  up  the  look-out 
wall,  and  that's  prohibited  too;  I  suppose  the  authori- 
ties think  they'd  be  spending  the  day  looking  at  the 
roses  instead  of  at  the  ships.  They've  moved  the  rocket 
apparatus  farther  along  the  coast ;  they  found  it  wasn't 
much  use  here,  and  it's  turned  out  very  successfully  at 
Abercelyn. —  Eh?  Yes,  where  the  manganese  comes 
from.  They  still  get  a  certain  quantity,  but  there's 
peace  in  the  Balkans  or  wherever  it  is  for  the  moment, 
so  nobody's  growing  very  rich  out  of  the  mines 
here.  .  .  . 

"  Hallo,  that's  rather  a  coincidence.  Don't  look 
round  too  quickly.  You  see  that  tallish  man  over 
there?  I  don't  suppose  you've  even  seen  him  before; 
as  a  matter  of  fact  he  hasn't  been  —  er  —  to  be  seen. 
He  got  into  trouble  once;  in  plain  English,  they  put 

him  in  prison.     His  name's  Armfield,  and  his  trouble 

347 


348  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

was  all  about  Llanyglo.  Awkward  things,  meetings 
like  these.  I  think  Armfield's  a  capital,  chap,  and  I 
should  like  to  go  and  talk  to  him;  but  prison's  a  cruel 
thing,  and  you  never  know  how  the  poor  fellow  himself 
feels  about  it.  ...  Ah !  As  I  thought,  he  looks  rather 
broken.  If  you  don't  mind  we  won't  watch  him. 
Come  on  to  the  Dinas  and  have  a  smoke.  .  .  . 

"  How's  John  Willie  Garden  ?  Perfectly  rosy,  if 
beginning  to  get  a  bit  fat.  Lucky  dog!  Four  chil- 
dren, two  boys  and  two  girls,  quite  an  amiable  chatter- 
box of  a  wife,  and  rich  enough  to  buy  almost  anything 
he  wants.  Lucky,  lucky  dog !  —  Did  I  tell  you  he  was 
the  adopted  Conservative  Free  Trade  candidate  for  one 
of  the  Manchester  divisions  ?  Not  that  he  cares  a  snap 
about  Free  Trade  politically;  economically  it  merely 
happens  to  be  a  good  part  of  his  bread  and  butter ;  but 
then  you  have  to  be  careful  about  what  you  say  on 
platforms,  and  so  John  Willie  talks  like  the  editor  of 
the  Spectator  himself.  June  Garden  runs  her  two 
houses,  one  here  and  one  in  Manchester,  like  clockwork, 
and  they  go  backwards  and  forwards  between  them  in  a 
really  regal  car.  Every  tramp  and  gipsy  on  the  road 
knows  that  car.  However  fast  he's  driving,  John  Wil- 
lie always  pulls  up  and  gives  them  a  shilling.  Just  a 
foible  of  his.  We  all  have  'em  in  one  shape  or  form. 

"  Llanyglo's  going  in  heartily  for  these  new  proposals 
for  advertising  the  town  out  of  the  rates.  A  young 
man  called  Ithel  Williams  is  very  keen  on  it ;  he's  a  son 
of  Tudor  Williams,  the  Tudor  Williams  who  used  to  be 
M.P.  for  this  division.  Young  Ithel's  got  rather  a  nice 
billet  here,  as  Librarian  or  something  for  the  Council, 
and  if  this  new  thing  goes  through  he'll  be  quite  in 
clover. —  Jobbery?  Well,  I  suppose  that's  the  name 


ADIEU  349 

for  it,  but  personally  I'm  not  altogether  against  it.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  only  alternative  is  putting  these 
berths  up  for  competitive  examination,  which  in  my 
opinion's  failed  all  along  the  line,  so  find  the  right  man 
and  then  job  him  in,  I  say. — The  right  man's  so  fre- 
quently a  relative?  Well  .  .  .  there  you  are.  That 
is  the  weak  spot.  But  there's  always  a  crab  some- 
where. .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  if  Armfield's  gone  yet  ?  Let's  have  a 
look.  .  .  .  No,  he's  still  there.  .  .  . 

"  A  good  season  ?  Yes,  from  all  accounts  it's  been 
a  very  good  season.  There  have  been  better  from  the 
purely  money  point  of  view,  I  should  say,  but  after  all 
everybody  can't  be  everything,  and  every  place  can't  get 
all  there  is.  Llanyglo,  like  other  places,  has  its  natural 
limits  of  expansion.  I  don't  think  it  will  get  any  big- 
ger yet  awhile.  There's  no  doubt  the  Wakes  people 
were  the  people  who  flung  the  money  about,  and  they've 
a  little  fallen  off;  but  even  if  Llanyglo  has  to  write 
down  some  of  its  obligations  it  will  probably  gain  in  the 
long  run.  A  section  of  the  Council's  coming  to  see  that, 
and  is  pressing  for  reconstruction  (that's  always  rather 
wonderful  to  me,  that  they  should  construct  things  of 
solid  materials  and  then  reconstruct  them  by  saying  they 
cost  less  than  they  did)  ;  but  that's  the  Council's  busi- 
ness, or  rather  the  powers  behind  the  Council.  Edward 
Garden  isn't  one  of  these  any  longer,  at  any  rate  not  to 
the  extent  he  was.  He  sits  in  Manchester  and  makes 
towns  in  Canada  now.  But  he  still  looks  at  letters 
under  his  glasses,  and  over  them,  and  backwards  and 
forwards  and  upside  down,  and  then  looks  mildly  up  at 
you  and  says  the  letter  seems  to  be  a  letter.  .  .  . 


350  MUSHROOM  TOWN 

"A  last  look  at  the  place:  there  you  are:  bay, 
Promenade,  Pier,  the  ring  of  mountains  behind.  It 
grew  from  a  few  fishermen's  huts  to  over-capitalisation 
in  a  very  few  years.  And  there's  Terry  Armfield,  still 
looking  at  it  all,  like  a  not  very  old  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
I  wonder  what  he's  thinking!  I  suppose  he  couldn't 
keep  away,  but  must  come  and  remember  it  as  it  was 
and  dream  over  it  again  as  it  was  never,  never  to  be. 
.  .  .  Walk  past  quickly;  he's  sobbing,  poor  chap.  His 
dream  was  of  a  place  —  I  don't  know  how  to  describe 
it  —  all  friendliness  and  loveliness  and  graciousness, 
fowl  and  flesh  and  good  red-herring  all  in  one,  so  to 
speak,  what  you  might  call  a  diaphanous  sort  of  place, 
a  jolly  place  to  think  of  during  those  few  minutes  of  the 
morning  or  evening  when  you're  not  quite  asleep  and 
not  quite  awake,  but  —  hm !  —  I'm  not  so  sure  .  .  . 
not  in  this  imperfect  world.  .  .  . 

"  Anyway,  that  down  there  is  what  he  sees.  .  .  . 

"  I  suppose  the  other  wouldn't  have  done.  .  .  . 

"Shall  we  go «" 


THE  END 


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